


A Deeper Magic

by samwise_baggins



Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Character Death, Drug-Induced Sex, Expanded Universe, F/M, Implied Sadism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Magic, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Murder, Rape, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 86,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwise_baggins/pseuds/samwise_baggins
Summary: Lavender is non-magical. Az is un-trusted. Ahamo is an outsider. And DG is an imposter. Surely the O.Z. can do better than that!





	1. Child's Play

**Author's Note:**

> Character Note: Leona is not an OC as such. I quote "Ah, school days. I remember a lovely lass named Leona…" per Glitch, Episode 2, "Tin Man". I merely gave her a background.
> 
> Spoiler: Yes, the entire movie, and even some information garnered from interviews with the cast.

_He knelt down, one brown-clad knee sinking into the soft emerald grass. Slender hands, made for working inside delicate machinery, wrapped around pudgy fingers. Drawing the child of four closer into his protective embrace, he guided the girl's small hands as they fluttered over a porcelain figurine in a red dress. Softly he hummed: a gentle tune of longing and joy._

_Behind the pair, a couple strolled along the lake shore. Dark waters rippled at the gently sloping bank, a rainbow of wildflowers giving way to dense reeds and lilies. Blue linen whispered against brown suede as the pair, the man as blond as the lady was brunette, leaned into one another. They laughed, their voices a happy drone carried on the soft breeze._

_The dark-haired man in the brown and gold uniform kept his attention on the equally dark-haired child rather than her parents. His tune never wavered as he continued to guide the child's hands over the porcelain figure. He moved her hands lightly up and over the delicate features, the chiffon dress, the dark ringlets, the golden tiara . . . helping the girl to see the doll with her hands as well as her eyes._

_A man in furred robes crouched nearby. His receding hairline adding to the air of wisdom surrounding him. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, squatting in a near-impossible position as his dark eyes darted over those present. The smile on his bifurcated lips belied the anxiety in his other movements as he seemingly ignored the birdsong in the trees nearby. He constantly twisted his gnarled fingers around one another, rocking on his feet and watching intently._

_Pushing the long brown coat out of his way, the pale-faced man twisted his clever hands once more. The sun glinted off gold braiding, blending with the glare off the gold and ivory pavilion close by. His wise brown eyes caught the frustration in the girl's hazel eyes. He smiled as she bit her lip. Again, he hummed the gentle tune, guiding her hands over the figurine._

_"I can't!" The little girl's voice rose in a desperate wail. "It's too hard. I'm not smart enough."_

_He lifted one hand to stroke her dark hair. "You_ are _smart, Princess. You have to believe." He placed his hand once more over hers. "Relax. Let the doll do what it wants. You . . ."_

_She spun in his arms, facing him with a stubborn pout, eyes flashing. "No, Ambrose, I can't! She won't fly!"_

_Ambrose laughed softly and pulled the girl into a hug. "Yes she will, Princess. You just have to trust yourself. The light in you will help her lift off of . . ."_

_"No!" she shook her head. "It's too hard, Ambrose. I can't do it! You don't know what it's like. You're too smart. But I'm just a little girl. And I'm stupid."_

_No longer laughing, smile forgotten, Ambrose pulled the little girl back into his arms, encircling her in gentle warmth. "I do know what it's like, Princess. I used to think the same exact thing."_

_She turned surprised eyes up to her mentor's pale face. "But you've never been stupid, Ambrose."_

_He smiled down at her and nodded. "Yes, I was. I was your age. My father talked about sending me to school so I could be a great thinker. He wanted me to learn fighting, too. I told him I couldn't do it because I was weak and stupid. He was so much smarter than me."_

_"You're the smartest man in the O.Z." Her tone mirrored the disbelief and disdain in her eyes. Apparently she thought her mentor lied to her._

_Ambrose laughed out loud, drawing the attention of the couple by the lake and the fur-robed man near the pavilion. He shook his head, soft black hair shimmering jewel-like in the sun, like polished jet. "Princess, I wasn't always a smart man." He hugged her, letting go of the doll completely. "Once, I was a little boy."_

_The princess lifted doubtful eyes, but he continued. "And I thought I was never going to be smart or strong or worth anything. I thought everyone was better than me . . . and my father was so smart and tall . . ." his voice drifted into silence as he let the memory of his father take hold. Brown eyes grew far away._

_Silently, the girl watched him, doll in one little hand. She seemed to be studying him closely, as if inspecting a new, unfamiliar man in this familiar mentor of hers. As if afraid to break his mood, she placed a tiny, pudgy hand on his pale cheek. "Ambrose?" Trust mixed into the hesitancy of her childish tones._

_Blinking, Ambrose shook his head once then looked down at the child. He smiled: a welcoming bright gesture. Smoothing fine craftsman's hands down her pale yellow sundress, and petting her dark ringlets, he said, "he told me something that I think will help you, too." With a sudden shift of weight, he dropped onto the grass, pulling the princess with him._

_She giggled as he adjusted her in his lap, legs crossed as a cushion below her, protecting her from the soft green grass and the rich earth below._

_"The skill of discretion, the persuasion of tongue, the knowledge of ages, will be yours one day, Son. Not one man can journey on another man's quest. As you travel through life, you won't win every test. But you will acquire the strength and the brain to teach all around you and learn well from their pain. When life's road has finished, you will rest among friends. Begin as a boy; you'll be a man in the end."_

_"But, Ambrose . . ." her voice sounded puzzled._

_He looked down, smiling. "Yes, Princess?"_

_"I'm a girl."_

xxx

"Oh, I wish I could remember." DG leaned against the back of Glitch's chair. Her dark hair slid forward, just caressing the tops of her breasts, hidden in a plain cotton T-shirt. Denim jeans hugged her curves as the twenty annual old shifted against the hard wood. Large blue eyes stared intently at the viewing tube, trying to absorb every nuance, to trigger any memory of a past long hidden.

The man before her was a shadow of the mentor displayed on the viewer. His hair no longer shone in black waves, instead protruding in unkempt dreadlocks around a too-obvious zipper down the middle of his head. His skin was paler than before, his clever hands twisting and flexing in unspoken, restless confusion. Those astute brown eyes were just as intelligent, yet something lurked behind them: some haunted confusion which spoke more of the bouts of amnesia caused by his _'re-education'_ than even the zipper. Ambrose, better known as Glitch now, had a condition that had been described as _'being trapped in his own mind,'_ and it was obvious the cruel horror that truly meant. Only one thing marked the wreck of a man before her as the gentle genius of the memory disc: his crisp new brown and gold uniform. Too large after the annuals of need and neglect, it suited him all the same.

"There're so many things I want to know. But it's not coming back. I can't remember that at all." DG's voice sounded more frustrated wail than conversational, though no one present seemed to fault her.

She had been in the O.Z. for just over a month. In that time, she'd met death and life, enemies and friends, failure and triumph. She learned she wasn't a part-time student with a waitressing job living on a farm in mid-America. She had been living in a well-constructed lie, protected against the truth and the witch who'd killed her once. Her quest had taken her to the O.Z., Outer Zone, and a family she'd never known she had in a steampunk-ish world she had only imagined in dreams and sketches.

Now, surrounded by family and friends: her mother, Queen Lavender; her father, Royal Consort Ahamo; her sister, Princess Azkadellia; royal adviser, Ambrose; and royal viewer, Raw; DG felt more at home than she ever had on the Other Side. But now she had to contend with relearning a life she hadn't known since she had been five. Her memories, faded with time, obscured with protective magic, were as fleeting as those of the royal adviser.

Which brought her to her current activity: watching old memory discs of a time long gone.

After a long silence, she shook her head, straightening from Glitch's chair. "I'm sorry. I can't remember." Her voice held a calm acceptance under-laid with frustration.

"Of course you don't." Glitch sounded as cheery as he had in the recorded memory. He flicked a long finger over the slot to retrieve the small opalescent disc. "You weren't there."

DG frowned and looked down at the man. "Uh, Glitch, you were trying to teach me to fly my doll . . ."

He shook his head. "No, I never taught you magic. That was Tutor."

No one else in the room spoke, allowing the pair their argument. DG adopted a patient tone, gesturing with one work-roughened hand at the blank viewing tube. "Well, if that was Tutor, he shrunk, got heavy, and turned dark in only a couple of years. I can remember him trying to teach me. I can't remember _you_ teaching me."

"That's because I never did." Glitch's tone sounded cheerful and certain. He seemed very sure that what they had just watched on the disc was not him trying to teach DG magic.

Patience could be one of her strong points when dealing with Glitch. DG moved around the chair, her steps muffled by her sneakers. She insisted on wearing her comfortable Other Side clothes whenever possible; the O.Z.'s form-fitting, movement restrictive fashions were not to her taste. Squatting down beside the chair, hand on an armrest, DG softly said "Glitch. If you never taught me, what did we just watch?" She felt her logic would somehow sink in and trigger his memory.

With a laugh, Glitch chose another disc from the container in his lap. "That was me teaching Princess Azkadellia."

A soft chuckle from the lavender-eyed woman sitting behind them drew DG's frown. She turned from Glitch to face the pale, silver-haired woman, queen of the O.Z. and her mother. Lavender smiled at her daughter in apparent amusement, one hand gently resting on her husband's arm. Whereas she looked worn-out from her annuals of imprisonment by the witch, her husband, Ahamo, look as robust and happy as he had in the memory disc. His vibrant blue eyes held more lines, his blond hair was a bit more grayed, and his torso a bit fuller than the young man they'd just viewed, but he was definitely the same man. Her mother, harder to identify, appeared frailer than she had in the disc.

DG's eyes moved to meet her sister's. Azkadellia had been equally imprisoned by the witch, though not in some golden globe. Instead, the older princess had been possessed, unable to stop what was being done, what the witch was making her do. Through Azkadellia, hidden by the pretty mask of a once-beloved princess, the witch had murdered DG, slaughtered thousands more, destroyed lands, and nearly sent the entire O.Z. into permanent darkness. Through the combined efforts of Queen Lavender and a handful of faithful friends, some dead and gone now, DG had returned and helped overthrow the evil possessing her sister.

Now, looking at the older woman, DG felt compassion for her sister. Since the end of the double eclipse, and the witch, Az had proven herself a strong, capable woman with a soft voice and a gentle nature. Unfortunately, the real woman often seemed clouded by the confusion and uncertainty left from fifteen annuals of enslavement. She masked the inner turmoil with a calm expression behind those hazel eyes, a floor-length, body-hugging gown of pale gold, and a complicated up-sweep of dark ringlets, but it would take a lot of healing to once again restore confidence and joy to the heir of the O.Z. throne.

With a sigh, DG turned back to face the memory viewer. "Okay. You got me. Good one. Now show me one with me in it. I want to remember."

Glitch's smile widened. "Learning about yourself involves learning about the people in your life. The world didn't begin with your birth."

DG lightly punched the man's arm. "Ha ha, Glitch."

He turned his grin up to her and slid the chosen disc into the slot. With a wave of his hand, he activated the machine. It bubbled to life, much like a great tube of green-tinted water. Then bubbles cleared and images clarified. Once more, the scene was set in the royal pleasure villa at Finaqua, their summer home.


	2. Rumors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: DG and Glitch watch videos of Glitch training Az in magic.

Wiping an arm across his sweat-streaked forehead, Wyatt Cain left a smudge of dirt in its place. He ran his hands down his dark suede trousers, flexing his bare shoulders then spine with catlike grace. Looking up at the leaf canopy, sun glinting down in random patterns of amber and emerald, he tilted his face to the gentle breeze ruffling his light blond hair. Musty earth and decaying leaf fodder filled the air with their rich odor.

Grasping the handle of his hoe again, Wyatt leaned heavily on it, his crystal blue eyes flicking over the men and women around him. Nearby his son, Jeb, worked diligently at turning the earth. A striking pair with their athletic builds and rugged good looks, there were notable differences between the son of eighteen and the father of thirty-five. Whereas Wyatt had pale blue eyes, his son's were more gray-blue. Cain's hair shone light blond, kept closely cropped; Jeb's glossed a darker shade of blond, longer, hanging over his forehead and slightly obscuring his eyes. Wyatt had the strong, solid build of a working man, a man who'd been both blacksmith and law officer. Jeb had an unfinished quality to him, more delicate of features, reminiscent of his deceased mother, Adora.

Jeb looked up from his own work and Wyatt gave him a single nod of acknowledgement. He received a hesitant smile in return, making Wyatt's lips twitch in response. Straightening, he wrapped strong hands around the worn wooden handle of his hoe and jammed the dull metal blade into the earth, twisting the dirt to overturn it.

Three weeks after the destruction of the witch, the O.Z. still needed colossal efforts to restore health to the wasted land and hope to the desolated people. They lacked proper tools for even simple planting, let alone reconstructing the homes and businesses destroyed in the witch's Long Coat rampages. Every hand was needed, and Wyatt, a former bodyguard in the Mystic Man's Tin Man security detail, found himself plowing and planting right next to shopkeepers, farmers, and stable hands.

It felt right to go to bed with aching muscles after a long day of restoring his world to her former glory. Besides, after an exhausting day plowing fields and repairing homes, Wyatt would tumble into bed so exhausted he'd fall into a deep sleep: no restless thoughts, no distorted memories, and, best of all, no dreams. He did miss his former duties, but he wanted a life with the son he'd been separated from during his eight annuals of imprisonment. This was the life Jeb had apparently chosen for himself, thus Wyatt would stay by his side. After the rebuilding, he planned to eschew all thoughts of guardian or law enforcement duties and once more take up the role of village blacksmith.

He would adjust to the quiet life.

Wyatt soon fell into a quiet rhythm of breaking the earth and turning it. He moved slowly, steadily, one patch at a time. Through gaps in the protecting trees, sun beat down on his neck and back, warming the skin there. Sweat sheened his body as he worked, letting the rhythm absorb him. When he reached the end of the row, he turned and worked his way back down the next.

Three rows and two hours later, the sound of a horse broke Wyatt from his concentration. He looked up, leaning on the hoe. Beside him, Jeb straightened, flexing his back, then rolled his hoe up onto his shoulders, draping his arms over the wood to hold it in place.

The rider stopped his horse before the pair, ignoring the other workers. His pale blond hair had platinum tints, soaked with sweat like his plain brown kilt and white shirt. His eyes were a slate gray, troubled and mirroring his exhaustion. He leaned over the neck of his mount, breathless from his ride. "Sir!"

Wyatt and Jeb answered as one "Yes?"

Glancing at his son, Wyatt let his body relax, indicating that Jeb was in charge. Apparently, the rider had already considered Jeb the leader as he looked directly at the younger man, probably a holdover from when Jeb led the resistance only a month prior.

"Sir . . . in the east . . . there's talk." He took a shaky breath. "About. . . the queen. They say . . . she has no . . . magic . . . that she can't . . . protect . . . the O.Z. . . . anymore . . ."

Father and son traded ominous looks, a shudder rippling between them.

Jeb swung his hoe from his shoulders, the blade chopping into the ground with a dull thunk. Letting it stand there, he stepped to the horse's side, taking her bridle in hand. "Water!" he called to those nearby, and a young boy dropped his seed bag and sprinted for the nearby river. Turning intense gray-blue eyes up to the messenger, he softened his voice. "What else, Dylan?" He steadied the mare.

Sliding off his mount, Dylan leaned into the horse. "There's fear . . . that . . . Sorceress . . . will come . . . back . . ."

"How many know that Princess Azkadellia was possessed?" Wyatt's voice vibrated low and stern.

Returning with a pail of water, the boy inadvertently interrupted the men. He gave a dipper of cold water to Dylan and waited while he drank, then put the bucket down in front of the horse. He looked to Jeb, who nodded, then hurried off to retrieve his seed pouch.

Dylan glanced at Wyatt and looked back at Jeb, but he finally acknowledged Wyatt's question. "Most believe . . . history . . . " He took a deep breath, shuddered, then seemed to gain his breath. "They know history . . . know the witch has come before . . . they believe the princess was a victim."

Wyatt nodded once. "Good to hear."

With a shake of his head, Dylan contradicted Wyatt's relief. "They're afraid she might get possessed again. They don't trust her or the queen to keep them safe." He frowned, glanced at those working around them and lowered his voice a bit more. "Most everyone's willing to forgive the royal consort the misunderstanding about his theft. They see it as a mistake during the . . . " He narrowed his eyes and thought a bit then said "confusion when the witch took over. But he's an Other Sider."

Jeb held up a hand. "So, basically no one trusts the House of Gale? What about Princess Dorothy?"

The messenger shook his head and patted his horse. "Sorry, Sir. Most people remember the murder and funeral. People are thinking this one's an impostor."

"She saved the O.Z.," Wyatt said slowly, enunciating carefully. "The Queen says she's the princess. With or without magic, the Queen's word is still truth."

Turning finally to Wyatt, Dylan shrugged one shoulder. "My opinion is that the people are confused and scared. They're grateful she saved them, but they're so used to being terrorized that they're not sure who to believe or trust. I think someone's spreading the rumors and the people are believing them."

"So they're calling for an overturn in the government?" Jeb frowned. "Thousands of annuals of clan royalty . . ."

Dylan cut in "no, Sir. Not a complete overturn. They're too used to following royalty, and no one wants to try to form a new government from nothing. No, they've got someone in mind. They're saying Princess Leona is the only one they can trust."

Wyatt straightened, his grip loosening on the hoe. He tightened his hold, not wanting to attract attention by dropping the tool. "Princess Leona? She gave up her claim when Princess Azkadellia was born. No one's seen her since . . . for fifteen annuals."

With a nod, Dylan turned back to Jeb. "Thing is, she's royal since she's Queen Lavender's cousin. It's a legitimate claim and people are feeling comfortable with it." He ran a slender hand through his sweat-damp hair.

Jeb moved his hand from the mare's flank to his friend's shoulder. "Thanks, Dylan. So who's spreading the most rumors?"

"And is Princess Leona encouraging them?" Wyatt said.

The young man took a deep breath.


	3. Chilling Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Wyatt and Jeb receive news of a possible coup. Dylan introduced.

A shudder ran through his body as water licked over his fresh scabs. Kneeling by the swift running river, Zero dipped his hands again into the clear water, splashing it over his over-heated face and head. He let it drip down his dark blond hair and over his muscular shoulders, running down his tanned, scarred back in chilling rivulets. The icy wetness brought him back: he closed weary gray eyes, focusing on the long forgotten images forming in his mind.

_The lake country looked like, in a word, paradise. Grass as green and full as the surrounding trees ran with a wild mix of multi-colored flowers. Water lilies spread across the blue waters like the clouds reflected from above. Pleasure cottages dotted the lake sides. At one lake the home rose pearl-colored and vast: a miniature palace for the summer indulgence of the ruling family._

_Mother didn't stop once to admire the beauty, to smell the aromas, to enjoy the birdsongs._

_He followed behind, scuffing his feet along the faded wood of the dock. His collar felt too tight, but he knew that if he loosened the button Mother would see. He'd rather put up with a choking collar than her wrath._

_Above them, on a slight rise, perched a white and gold pavilion with a bench-swing. One of the Viewer people squatted by the pavilion, dressed in fur despite the summer heat. Three adults, two dark, the third blond, strolled towards them dressed in more finery than even the stores of Central City displayed. He felt poor and disgusting in the simple cotton frock coat and knee breeches. His discomfort reached its zenith when a little girl ran past the adults. Black ringlets bounced over her neck and shoulders and her deep blue dress looked like a party dress, not play clothes._

_"Straighten up, child." Mother's tone reminded him of an angry dog he'd met once._

_He straightened and stepped forward, stopping quickly as Mother drew up sharp midway down the dock._

_The girl seemed too excited to check herself and pelted onto the smooth, age-worn planks. "Hello. I'm Azkade… Oh!" Finding no purchase for her satin slippers, the girl slid on the old dock. With a shrill wail, she tumbled over the side and into the chilly waters._

_"Az!" The three adults ran forward as the Viewer leapt from his crouch, sprinted down the sloping lawn, and splashed into the lake._

_Without thought of what Mother might say, he leapt over the edge of the dock and into the crystalline waters. Keeping his eyes open and steady on the blue satin, he pushed himself deeper. He reached out and grabbed the first part of the little girl he could reach: her thick curls. Wrapping a strong, work-calloused hand around what felt like wet silk, he tugged hard. The pull of the water worked against him and he tugged harder, regretting the pain it might cause her. When she came close enough, he wrapped his arms around her and kicked hard. As she clutched him, hands clawing his neck in desperation, he forced them towards the surface._

_They broke the water, both gasping for air. Az started crying._

_Many hands appeared, grasped, and lifted the pair from the water. The blond man took the little girl, while Mother helped him up. Her hand crushed his fingers, a warning of repercussions to come . . as if he'd tripped the child._

_"My Azkadellia!" The brunette woman cried, clutching at her daughter._

_"I do hope she won't take a chill." Was that concerned tone coming from Mother?_

_He looked at her, shock widening slate-colored eyes._

_"And I do hope my little zero didn't hurt her too badly." As if in after-thought, mother winced. . . too late; the damage from her slip-up had already been made._

_The queen, for now that he got a chance to process things he realized that the worried woman was indeed the queen, turned to him. "Your name is Zero?"_

_He opened his mouth to correct her but fell silent when Mother squeezed his fingers again._

_Mother's voice held something akin to pleasure. "Yes. His name is Zero. He's going to train in the army, Your Majesty."_

_"Surely he's too young for my army?" With a soft smile, the queen placed a hand on the newly dubbed Zero's head._

_Mother cleared her throat. Was she actually nervous? Had she realized that the queen believed that insult was his name? But Mother didn't take it back, didn't apologize and explain that she had been calling her son Zero out of anger. Instead, Mother smiled . . . actually smiled . . . and said "he's twelve annuals, Your Majesty. And his father was in the military . . ."_

_The royal consort, Zero could now see that the blond man must be Ahamo, continued to hold his shivering daughter. He smiled at Mother and laughed. "He can't join until he's seventeen. But, as you're going to relieve Ambrose of his tutoring duties, your son is welcome to stay. He can play with Azkadellia when he's not studying."_

_Reluctantly accepting that he would probably be known as Zero the rest of his life, he studied the little girl. Play with a four year old? Was the Consort joking? He'd rather be fighting than playing with dolls. Besides, being near the princess meant being near Mother, and he looked forward to escaping the bitter insults and painful corrections she liberally doled out on her son._

_Mother, however, seemed to like the idea of keeping her despised offspring with her . . . if it meant assurance that she'd get the royal post of Magical Tutor. She nodded, almost too eagerly. "Why, that is a splendid idea, Your Grace." She let go of her son's hand, snatching her fingers away as if he'd scalded her. "He can make sure no one hurts her. Protecting your daughter will be perfect training for his future." She turned a sharp look on her son._

_He once more opened his mouth to answer but a wet hand on his interrupted. The Viewer gripped his hand, shaking it. Looking out of dark eyes, fringe of black hair dripping, the Viewer suddenly grinned. "Loyal . . ." his smile lessened. "Hard future . . . hard decisions . . . much grief . . ." The smile disappeared completely as the Viewer stared intently into his eyes. "Violent . . ."_

_"Lilo!"_

_Ahamo's voice broke the Viewer's concentration, and the man let him go with one last "but loyal."_

_Water ran from his dark blonde hair, into his collar, mixing with fresh blood. . ._

. . . a chill shook Zero's body and he dropped the memories. He reached for his shirt and eased it over aching muscles and barely healing gashes. There was no time for daydreaming about events over twenty-three annuals ago. He had to find Azkadellia.

He had a mission to accomplish.


	4. Planting Seeds of Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zero recalls meeting Az as children. He is presently injured and on the move. Marresura introduced.

Kneeling on a small, faded red mat, she patted the dark brown earth in place around the green shoot. Her hair, as dark as the rich loam she worked, had been pulled into a loose pile with curls falling down over her tanned neck. Dressed in a plain brown skirt and blue blouse with shaper, she looked like any other working-class woman of the Eastern O.Z. Her blue eyes looked far away, as if she dreamed rather than worked at something as mundane as a garden.

A black-haired man in plain brown trousers and jacket strode unevenly up the central garden path. His frown pulled at a scar on the left side of his face, twisting it into a grotesque parody of a smile. The limp of his left leg didn't seem to slow him down. He stopped three steps behind the woman. "Princess Leona," he said.

Leona lifted her face and her ocean-blue eyes focused on the man. She lifted her left hand, holding the dirty trowel, and rubbed at her sweat reddened face with the back of her wrist. Wisps of hair, fallen from her upsweep, clung to her damp skin, adding to the appearance of hot exhaustion. She frowned, her eyes narrowing. "Gyles?"

The man, Gyles, bowed at the waist, straightening with apparent great effort. His scarred face twisted in a grimace, that almost half-smile still tugging on the left side of his face. "Ma'am, there are some men here to speak with you."

She opened her mouth but shut it again when he continued.

"One said it was politics, Ma'am. I have them in the gray room." He held out his gloved right hand.

"Oh, Stars, the grey room, Gyles?" Leona planted her hand in the dirt and pushed off the ground, standing unassisted. Trowel still firmly clutched in her left hand, she wiped both down her skirt, streaking dirt over the cotton. "Why ever would you use the grey room? It's the most depressing place." She didn't look at the man. Instead, she bent at the waist, her backside jutting out as she scooped up the shears in her right hand She seemed unaware of the undignified position of having her derriere waving around in front of the man. "Could you send someone for the rest?"

Voice neutral, the man shifted his eyes to the side. "The grey room is the largest room with seating, Ma'am." Gyles turned, letting his hand fall to his side. He waited a heartbeat or two before starting for the back entrance of the three story, twenty-two room mansion.

Glancing at the man's back then looking down at her dirty outfit, Leona began to follow Gyles' limping gait. She tried to wipe the dirt from her skirt but once more stained the fabric with dirt from the trowel. "Are we trying to impress these men with useless opulence, Gyles? Why would we need fifteen chairs for a political discussion with locals?" She looked up, stopping. "They are locals, Gyles, aren't they? It's not about Cousin Azkadellia's mad coup, is it? Stars! I hope she hasn't been killed. I've nearly found the Emerald, and I know that I can use it to free her."

With a sigh, pale green eyes rolling skyward, Gyles stopped then cleared his expression. He turned to the princess. "The Emerald is found. The witch is gone. Princess Azkadellia is free. She has been for half a cycle now, Ma'am." He turned and began to limp off. "They are indeed foreigners, Ma'am."

Blue eyes widening, Leona hurried to catch up to Gyles. "You know I never listen to rumors. Until the Gales write to tell me of the changes, I won't believe them. Especially," she grabbed the man's right shoulder, pulling so he turned around. "I especially won't believe that one about poor cousin Dorothy. They should leave the child to rest in peace. It was horrible losing her at five. Let's not dig that back up."

He winced. "Ma'am… that pun was distasteful."

"Pun? What pun?" she asked, her eyebrow raising in confusion. "And where are the foreigners from? The O.Z. or the Realms beyond?"

"I believe, Ma'am, that they are from the Outer Zone. I couldn't see all of them, however." He apparently had determined to ignore Leona's poor choice of words in deference to her obvious confusion. "They are in the grey room because there are twelve of them, Ma'am."

"Twelve? At once? Oh, my . . ." Leona's voice faded to a whisper and she walked past Gyles, skirt swishing over her bare feet at her rapid pace.

Behind her, Gyles winced. "Ma'am! You are . . ."

She ignored him as a woman in plain brown opened the garden door. "Thank you, Bethy," she said and walked inside. In a moment she had reached the door to the grey room and nodded to a young red-haired man in simple brown.

He opened the mahogany door, stepped in front of the princess, and called in loud tones "the royal princess, Leona Gale." He stepped out of the way to the sounds of scraping chairs, shuffling feet, and murmured voices.

Leona nodded once more to the redhead and walked into the room.

Inside twelve men of varying dress and appearance stood, some bowing at the waist, some at the neck. They could have been anyone from peasants to nobility; however, one man appeared unique. Dressed in black leather with a long black trench coat and knee-high black boots, his hair had been shaved so close to the scalp that the color of his light fuzz appeared either brown or dark blond. His green eyes darted about the room, vivid with the glow of intelligence.

"Gentlemen." Leona walked further into the room, her feet making no noise on the polished grey-veined marble. She strode to the chair closest the door. Switching the trowel to the hand with the shears, she grabbed her skirt and tugged the long material aside, molding it briefly to her shapely hip. She sank onto the chair without glancing at it then switched the trowel back to her left hand and rested both hands on her thighs, her face red and sweat-damp, tendrils of hair plastered here and there. Bare toes peeked out from under her skirts.

With a tight hand gesture, fingers and palm flat, the man in black seemed to signal his compatriots. For two minutes the room echoed with scraping sounds as the group turned their chairs to face the princess rather than the large hardwood desk. As one man moved to sit the man in black glared at him and shook his head sharply, once. The other man flushed and stood so quickly he overbalanced, sending his chair tumbling in a crash of metal, wood, and marble. No one laughed as the clumsy man bent to straighten it.

Leona turned her eyes to the authoritative man in black. "Whom is it that wishes to address the princess?" She could sound like a pompous bitch at times, and evidentially this proved one of them.

"Randu, former second in command of her majesty's protective division, Your Highness."

She looked over the standing group, waiting for her command to sit or leave or fall on their swords. It was heady, so much power; however, she gave none of those commands. Rather, she said "and what is it Randu wishes to say?"

Randu bowed his head briefly then said "it concerns the O.Z., Your Highness, and the fear the people have that they are unprotected. They fear a threat from the Western Realm beyond the sands."

"I see." She frowned then nodded once. "Tell me about the people and this threat."

The former Long Coat smiled softly, his eyes hardening. He moved closer to the princess and knelt next to her as if a confidant . . . a faithful adviser. "Your Highness, they need a strong queen to lead and protect them. They need the assurance of true royal blood and the safety of the light." He slid a hand onto the carved armrest of her chair and leaned in close, as if departing an important state secret. "Your Highness, they need you."


	5. The Confusion of Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Plans are made concerning a possible coup. Leona introduced. Randu introduced. Gyles introduced.

Closing deep hazel eyes to block out the sight of the memories playing in the viewing tube, Azkadellia tried to relax. She wanted to recall something on her own, without the aid of security visuals, memory discs, or a nagging voice in her head. Shuddering at the last thought, she stood and smiled absently when Raw turned to face her, his face lined in apparent worry. Az shook her head once, smiled softly, and walked from the viewing room.

No one fell into step behind her as she softly walked the well ordered halls of the tower. The sensation felt strange. Ever since she'd been little, she'd had a bodyguard or adviser following almost every step. Ever since she'd been twelve, the witch and the mobats had been in her head. And ever since she'd been freed three weeks ago, she'd had DG or one of her parents in almost constant attendance. Now, for the first time since she had been . . . what? Four? Five? She was truly left alone. It felt terrifying and exhilarating.

A soft frown crossed the princess' lovely features: high cheekbones, pale unblemished skin, fine dark hazel eyes. She had a mane of shining dark hair which she kept up in the tradition of the O.Z.: unavailable women, married or otherwise, kept their hair up or pulled back; those who were looking for a mate, a help-meet, kept it free and flowing or used barrettes like a child to clear their eyes. Her little sister either deliberately flaunted O.Z. tradition or had no idea of the difference here. Briefly she wondered if DG knew she daily advertised her availability. Az decided _'no'_ ; the customs were probably different on the Other Side. Yet one more thing for Az to inform the headstrong DG about before the younger woman got herself into another mess.

Making her way to a hall balcony, overlooking the inner court and front gate, Az let her posture slip, leaning on the dark stone. She lifted her eyes to the horizon, unaware just what she looked for . . . until she saw a flash of silver in the midday sun. Straightening, her heart speeding up in anticipation, Az leaned over the balcony rail intent on the first view of the incoming soldier. Disappointment washed over her when she realized his hair was too dark, his body too heavy. The man she looked for was whipcord thin, strong and sure without being overbearing. His blond hair always seemed a bit disheveled and he wore his uniform with the pride and ease of a man born to it. Az slumped against the stone balustrade once more, closing her eyes, and fought the tears welling up.

She hadn't seen him for three weeks, when the witch had her send him to bring in DG and her party. There had been a brief message, from one of the junior Long Coats . . . something about catching the men in the Realm of the Unwanted. She'd been assured that he was on the way back with his prisoners. There had been no more communication and within two days the tower had been under siege. The men he'd captured were now here in the tower, trusted advisers to the queen . . . except the ex-Tin Man Cain who'd disappeared just after being cleared to travel despite his gunshot wound. Az felt her chest tighten, the air getting harder to breathe, and her hand fluttered to the base of her throat. She would have to face it: Zero had been killed.

While most people may have thought that would be a good thing, Zero had a sadistic twist to him when it came to protecting her or torturing enemies, Az couldn't handle the idea of losing the man. She'd known him for twenty-three annuals; he'd been her playmate and protector when she was little. During his Youth Army training, when he'd been replaced by the young man Randu, he'd kept up a constant flow of letters, admonishing her to behave and stay out of trouble, promising her he'd return soon, informing her about the intense training he was going through. Through both of his failed marriages he'd been diligent and faithful to her, never once letting the messy affairs over-shadow his commitment to his princess. Even when she'd been possessed he was the only one to stand by her, the only one who believed in her. He couldn't be dead . . . not like that, not without warning, without the absolute knowing that had come when Zora had died. He couldn't just ride off to do a job and never return. It was too painful . . . too uncertain.

Az ignored the tears washing down her pale cheeks, leaning her head painfully into the corner of the balustrade. It wasn't fair that she had lost everything she'd loved and valued in this life only to get it all back except the man who'd been the most valuable, the most faithful . . . With a shudder, repressing her sobs, Az pushed away from the stone balcony.

She frowned severely, straightening her body to the point of near-pain, her hand leaving her throat to coast down to her abdomen. Az shook her head, as if refusing some inner voice. Zero had been a soldier and her bodyguard. He had been destined to die for her; she must accept that it had happened. Many men hadn't died for her before; many men would die for her in the future, she didn't doubt. What could possibly make this one man more special than the others? His loyalty? She had many men loyal to her. Az whirled around, unaware that her body language, her expression, her entire air, were reminiscent of the days of her possession.

Stars, she couldn't even remember when she'd met the man.

_Green . . . neon green . . . sunshine . . . water . . . Finaqua?_

Confusion warred with recognition as vague images began to fill Az's head. Her hand flitted back up to her forehead and she slid down the wall behind her.

_A boy with messy blond hair and changeable gray eyes . . ._

She closed her eyes, trying to relax, trying to concentrate, trying to remember.

_"You little monster! It'll never come out!" The boy in a royal brown and gold uniform whirled away from the little girl in the sunny yellow dress. His grey eyes snapped with thunder, his face contorted in wrathful anger. However, his vengeful image proved somehow comical from the facts that his messy hair shone neon green and he carried a porcelain doll in a plain white dress._

_"I'm sorry, Zero. Truly!" The child's voice whimpered softly, full of regretful. She grabbed onto his larger hand with the pudgy fingers of a five annual old. "I was trying for the dolly, Zero."_

_He glared down at her, shaking her hand from his. "Azkadellia, you are a total menace! Unless you start paying attention to mother's lessons, you're going to get someone killed with that thing you call magic!" He gave her a final glare. "And my hair is green, you little brat!"_

_The princess sobbed, both hands flying to cover her mouth. She didn't looking at her bodyguard, however, but at something behind him. "Oh, Zero, be quiet! She'll hear you!"_

_Angry, but not so far gone as to miss the horror in the little girl's voice, Zero clamped his mouth tightly shut, whirling around to face the threat. His mother, the magical tutor, strode quickly towards the pair, an ever-present frown drawing deep lines in her face. Out of the corner of his mouth, Zero whispered, "Don't say anything, Az. Let me handle it." He then stepped in front of the little girl, all traces of anger with her put aside._

_Az trusted the thirteen annual old boy completely. He had saved her from the water and had been her daily companion ever since. If he often played with her and would read and study while she also did lessons. He even remained for magic training, a class Azkadellia dreaded as her tutor was a cold-hearted woman who apparently hated children._

_"What is going on, Zero?" The woman stopped in front of them with her hands on her hips, a long thin branch in one hand. Her expression was as thunderous as Zero's had been a moment before, but something about the woman revealed that she wouldn't be as easy to forgive or as gentle as he had been. "Your Royal Highness, have you been practicing or playing?" The menace in her voice vibrated through the summer air._

_She couldn't help it. Az gripped Zero's uniform and ducked behind him, trying to hide from the wrath of her angry tutor. She couldn't understand how this could be Zero's mother; she was so . . . evil._

_Zero's body stiffened under the girl's fingers but he didn't shake her off, didn't step away. Instead he said "Mother, it was my mistake. I . . . I distracted her when she did the color-change spell you taught her. I . . ." he looked at the doll in his hand then back to his irate mother. With a deep breath, he stood straighter. "I thought it'd be fun to distract her . . . see if she could do it that way."_

_Anger and something akin to triumph flared in the woman's eyes. She took her hands from her hips, raising the branch. "Princess, you need to learn when not to use your magic." She reached a thin, aged hand towards the cowering five annual old._

_"No, Mother!" Zero pushed the woman's hand aside, pushing Az further back with his other hand. "She's just a little girl!"_

_The woman stiffened and pure hatred twisted her face. She drew out every word, dripping revulsion. "How . . . dare . . . you . . ." Lifting the branch once more, she brought it down with a stinging snap across her son's cheek, leaving a red welt in its wake. "The . . . trou . . . ble . . ." a stinging thrash of the makeshift whip coming down on the thirteen annual old's head, shoulders, and torso punctuated every syllable. He twisted under her angry barrage, not making a sound as she continued her rant. "I . . . went . . . through . . . to . . . get . . . you . . . The . . . risk . . . to . . . my . . . life . . . You . . . hor . . . ri . . . ble . . . freak . . . of . . . na . . . ture . . . I . . . should . . . have . . . killed . . . you . . . that . . . first . . . day . . . You . . . dare . . . raise . . . a . . . hand . . . to . . . me . . ."_

_Az stood, sobbing and trembling as Zero dropped to his hands and knees, twisting and shuddering under the painful onslaught. His mother never lessened her attack and Az wondered if the tutor might actually kill her son. It was too much! She'd seen Zero beat before for something he failed to do that his mother expected, but this time he took her punishment. She couldn't stand by and watch. With a scream, the princess leapt forward, but fell as something pulled her foot out from under her. Confused, she looked up and saw Zero looking straight at her, his slate eyes intent and defiant._

_"No . . ." he mouthed. He was right, of course. The woman had become so enraged she would have beat the little princess senseless if interrupted._

_The beating she gave her son only lasted a couple more strokes before she stepped back, panting, arm trembling from her efforts. She straightened and nodded with a gesture of finality. "Let that be a lesson to you both. You will never raise another hand to me, Zero, or I will break your fingers one by one. You won't get far without hands. And, Your Royal Highness," she spat the words as if tasting poison "you will do well to remember what your actions have wrought. You may as well have held the whip today." With that, the woman spun around and strode off, her thick-soled shoes leaving indentations behind her as she headed to the palace._

_"Oh, Zero!" Az rushed to her bodyguard and knelt by him, afraid to touch him, not knowing how to help. "I'm so sorry! I'll never do it again. I'll stop magic."_

_Zero's head came up so quickly he nearly smacked into her. "No! If you stop magic, she'll take me away." With a long, painful stretch, the boy uncurled himself from the ground. He stood carefully, his body a pattern of red stripes, some so deep they even bleed through the uniform jacket. "Look, Az, this is my job. To protect you. Even if I die doing it; it's what I love to do. Don't take it away from me." He hung his head and said softly "it's all I have."_

_Az nodded, still crying. "I promise, Zero." She reached out a small hand and hesitantly touched a part of his cheek miraculously uninjured. "I'll work extra hard. She scares me." Az dropped her hand and reached for his hand once more._

_Squeezing her fingers gently, the boy nodded, green bangs flopping over his forehead. "Yeah, me, too" he whispered. A moment later, Zero turned back to her and shook off her hand. "Enough, Princess. I've got to find a way to fix this." He looked down at her one last time then turned and painfully, slowly walked off towards the main house, doll clutched, forgotten, in his hand._

Opening dark hazel eyes, Az tried to stifle a sob at the horrible memory. Had she deliberately forgotten the pain she put him through? It had been the worst beating but not the only one. Zero had always taken her beatings from his mother . . . for six years he had suffered the pain that would have been inflicted on her. The princess knew now why it hurt so much to lose Zero: he wasn't just her bodyguard and trusted servant, the man who had stayed by her when all others had turned their backs. He was her friend. And she had never appreciated that until now.

Azkadellia buried her face in her arms and wept.


	6. A Storm Is Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkel Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs is the full name of the original Wizard of Oz from L. Frank Baum's series.
> 
> Last Chapter: Az recalls a traumatic incident from childhood.

Sliding yet another disc into the viewer slot, Glitch's dark brown eyes flickered over the viewing tube, taking in the gently rising bubbles of the green liquid. He seemed to patiently wait for the recorded memories to shimmer into view, apparently unbothered by the feel of DG's warmth as she leaned on his chair. Deftly he slipped his free hand to his thigh, clutching slightly, but unable to hide the tremor of fear that racked him.

Queen Lavender frowned softly and drew a slow, quiet breath. She hated to interrupt his pleasure, but he'd put this off far too long. His anxiety would only grow as he waited. Determination radiated through her as she set her back and turned her eyes to the viewing tube. She would have to intervene . . . after one more memory.

The bubbles cleared, as much as slowly churning liquid could be said to clear, and images seemed to solidify.

_Without needing to look, Henry 'Hank' Diggs, reached up and adjusted the valve release on the heat, filling the silken envelope and keeping the balloon in a steady slow rise. It was a mass ascension, not a race, and he used that plan to show off his hand-crafted basket and fine silk. Aeronauts often received a great deal of attention when they flew overhead; what better way to advertise his willingness to take paying customers up with him?_

_The cool air rushed to envelop him in her frigid embrace. He closed his bright blue eyes, lifting his face to the wind as she combed chilled fingers through his blond hair, sliding over his smooth cheeks and sunburned forehead. He never felt such peace as when he was soaring over the pastures and hills of Nebraska in his garish orange balloon._

_A sudden icy whip lashed him, drawing him from his peaceful musings. He opened his eyes and assessed his surroundings, noting the rapidly darkening skies and dropping temperatures. A frown chased away his normal wide smile and Hank began working his lines. A display was one thing, but he'd be damned before he risked his life in a rising storm._

_All around him other aeronauts rushed to stabilize their balloons, to search for possible landing places. Already, one hung low down and another descended almost too quickly. That aeronaut would be lucky if he didn't crash his balloon with his careless handling._

_Hank had no choice but to open up the valve and force his balloon above those fighting to land. He couldn't let himself be swept into a massive accident. Instead, he had to hope he could get beyond the mass descent and find a safe location before the freak storm hit. He trusted his instincts, borne of years of flying balloons with his uncle and grandfather, to help him avoid the disaster. As his balloon crawled higher, he let out a long whistle: a balloon with a purple silk envelope and one with rainbow silk had vied for the same landing zone. Hank looked away from the twisted baskets and ripped silk, pulling his mind back to his own safety. He could do nothing for the two aeronauts in the accident below._

_Wind howled, sending a shudder through the wildly swinging basket. Gripping tightly, Hank crouched. Flashes of lightning and the tell-tale freight-train roar of a tornado sent dread from his heart to his groin. His muscles clenched; his insides churned. He quickly scanned the wind-whipped grounds and blackening skies; where was it?_

_Before he could spot it, the twister overtook him. He wrapped his arms in the lines and sank to the floor of the basket. The basket rocketed back and forth, as if trying to throw him out of his small safety, to suck him into the debris-riddled fury. And from that moment on, the only thing Hank Diggs could do was hold on for dear life._

_Some time passed before the storm ebbed. Bruised and bleeding, nauseous, he pulled himself to shaky feet. Slowly, he unwound cables from numbed arms, absently noting the rope burns. Lifting troubled brown eyes to study the skies, he was relieved to see the clouds lightening. The storm had gone. And, the wonder of it, his silk wasn't even pierced._

_He checked the lines and the fire source, adjusting the valve to keep the balloon aloft but bring it down slowly. He looked over the edge of the basket. His lungs felt empty and he tried to suck in a breath. It took a minute or so for him to cough then he began to breathe rapidly, heart pounding._

_Below him spread crystal blue waters, rippling amidst green and flowing grass. Wildflowers, blue, pink, red, yellow, and purple, sprinkled the grass with their vibrant colors. A riot of scents swirled through the air, rising in the clear air, fresh after the storm. In the field sat two girls staring up towards him._

_With a subtle adjustment, he closed the valve enough to bring the balloon down in a rapid, controlled descent._

_As one the girls stood, one in her mid-teens the other older, perhaps even a grown woman._

_The younger had a mass of dark brown curls trailing down her back. Her blue eyes seemed too large for her young face. Her blue satin dress, cinched at the waist with a white sash, matched the blue and white ribbons in her curls. She shaded her eyes with a hand, pointing in the direction of his balloon. The elder wore pale violet, gracefully hugging her curves, caressing her ankles. Her dark brown hair cascaded past her shoulders, a lavender ribbon, matching her eyes, curled against her right cheek. They made a beautiful pair._

_Long minutes crept by before his balloon thumped onto the thick grass, the silk envelope deflating quickly as he deprived it of all hot air. A miscalculation brought down the heavy silk directly on his head, knocking him to his knees. The basket rocked, throwing him against the side, and the entire rig toppled sideways. He slammed into the ground with enough force to make him bite his tongue._

_Both girls ran forward. Unmindful of her satin dress, the younger girl threw herself on the grass and grabbed his arm, tugging. The elder began to gather the silk, balling it as she freed him._

_"Oh, are you hurt?"_

_He looked up into the girl's blue eyes._

_"Lavender, he's hurt." She tugged again, a frown pulling down her mouth. "Are you broken?"_

_"Leona, be gentle." The woman, Lavender, dropped the folds of orange silk and knelt next to him. Her hands started to move carefully over his arms, his shoulders. "You're not from here . . ."_

_"I'm from," he blinked, placing his hands over Lavender's and staring into those glorious lavender eyes, "Omaha . . . where am I?"_

_Leona giggled. "Omaha . . . that's a girl's name." The girl swept her blue skirt aside, revealing a slim blade strapped to her outer thigh. Pulling it from its sheath, she started cutting the lines, freeing the silk._

_Disentangling him, Lavender gave him a dazzling smile. "Then we shall have to make it a boy's name, shan't we, Leona?" Laying a gentle hand on his cheek, she tilted her head and said "we shall call you Ahamo."_

As the images faded, Queen Lavender stood and cleared her throat with a chuckle. "And that is your cousin Leona, DG." She turned a look upon her still handsome husband. "We should write to her again. I know she hasn't acknowledged our letters since the Eclipse, but she cannot ignore us forever."

"It's possible she's hurt. After abdicating her claim to the throne in favor of Azkadellia, she fairly disappeared in the Thousand Year Grasslands. Those are rough lands," Ahamo replied in his soft voice, worry coloring his normally amused tones.

"She'd written regularly until . . ." Lavender sighed, not mentioning her youngest daughter's death or eldest daughter's possession. Instead, she shook herself lightly and turned to Glitch. "Enough videos, Old Friend," she strode gracefully to place a gentle hand on Glitch's shoulder. "It is time. Your memories are stored . . . and time grows late." She gave a swift smile to her younger daughter as DG straightened, frowning.

Swallowing, placing the disc container aside with a trembling hand, Glitch rose and smoothed down his new uniform. He turned wide dark eyes on his oldest friend.

Lavender offered him a comforting smile and reached out, gently taking his hand. "Raw, if you please? We will get Azkadellia and begin. Come, Ambrose." Firmly she guided the frightened, confused man from the viewing room towards the elevator.

"We'll be here when you wake up, Glitch," called the comforting voice of DG as the pair made their way into the elevator. Raw swiftly followed without a sound, glancing at Glitch with an inscrutable look on his bearded face. As the doors closed on the trio, DG ran past to find her elder sister and send her to sub-level three: brain storage and surgical suite.

With a lot of work, delicate nursing, and immense luck, Glitch would be Ambrose once more.


	7. Disclosures in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: DG's group watch an image of how Ahamo came to the O.Z. and met Lavender. Ambrose goes to surgery.

Twitching open the curtain, she looked out over the cracked landscape with large, vibrant blue eyes. One moon hung low on the horizon, a perfect glowing orb in a tapestry of flashing diamonds far above the onyx-dark spires of the tower. A sigh shuddered through her, and DG let the curtain fall back into place. She turned to face the others in the large sitting room.

Impatience laced her throaty voice as she addressed the others sitting there. "Why is it taking so long? They've been in there for hours." A frown crossed her features and she stepped away from the window, voice firming. "I should be in there. I can help."

"No, DG," her father's deeper voice stopped her. "They can handle this."

"We're stronger together," DG shook her head, dark hair swinging around her upper arms.

Lavender added her voice to her husband's. "But your control is too sporadic, My Darling." The silver-haired queen rose gracefully and walked to her daughter. Slipping an arm around DG's shoulders, she said "no one has yet attempted to replace a removed brain, DG. The medicos specifically asked for limited external contaminants, including people and their . . ."

"Natural germs," Ahamo put in with a wide, gentle smile. "One viewer, one magical practitioner, and the scientific-medical staff only." He gestured casually to the fur-robed, brown-haired boy sleeping in a nearby chair. "They refused Raw's request to let Kalm in, as well."

A sigh shuddered through DG's body as she briefly leaned into her mother. A moment later the young woman straightened and turned to meet her mother's kind violet eyes. "Right. So I'm a liability to Glitch." Her frown mirrored her bitter tone.

"DG," Ahamo said, regret reflected in his voice. "I didn't mean you specifically . . ."

Several sets of footsteps on the wide marble floor of the hall drew their attention. All three turned expectantly, anxiety for their friend palpable in the air.

A single guard sprinted in, breathless with his run and his message. "There's been a . . ." belatedly gathering himself in the presence of the royal family, he bowed hastily. "There's a . . ."

The entrance of three other men interrupted whatever his message might have been. All three men stood fit and tall with differently shaded blond hair and wearing various worker's clothing. One younger man sported a kilt, one a sword, and the last, older man a fedora and long duster. This third man stepped forward and his calm, deep voice seemed to bring a sense of security with it.

"Hello, Princess."

"Cain!" DG's gasp held as much relief as distress as she practically ran across the room and into the startled embrace of her one time protector. "You heard . . ." she breathed into his shoulder, arms slipping around his waist as she buried her face in his collar, letting her fears temporarily slide away.

He wrapped his arms around the younger woman in an instinctively protective gesture. It had been weeks since he'd seen any of his questing companions, but Wyatt had never been very good at showing his emotions, and the only indication of any now was the relief in his crystal blue eyes. "Yeah," he rumbled, looking straight at the queen. "I heard. We didn't know if the rumors got this far."

"Rumors?" Lavender frowned, ignoring the fact that a former blacksmith and bodyguard still held one of the royal family in close embrace. She apparently understood what it was to miss a faithful friend and loyal companion.

DG lifted her face and brushed away her tears. "Rumors?" she echoed her mother, finally pulling away at the stiff posture of the former Tin Man, though only slightly. "What rumors?" she looked up at the man who'd been the voice of reason in her mad journey not even a month before.

Understanding flashed through Wyatt's eyes. "You haven't heard." He gently disentangled himself from DG and stepped closer to her parents. Removing his hat in a gesture of respect, he said "there's talk of shifting support away from you to a new ruler."

"A new ruler?" Ahamo stiffened. "Who? DG?"

"Far from it, Sir," Jeb Cain spoke up, stepping closer, one hand firmly on his hilt to prevent his sword rattling. He rarely wore the badge of leadership he'd been presented by the rebellion but the unspoken symbol marked the eighteen annual old man an equal to the reportedly fair-minded rulers; thus, his opinions and ideas would in all probability be listened to. After all, his resistance fighters had aided in the destruction of the witch, enabling the Gale family to retake their generations-old throne.

Ahamo turned to Jeb and smiled at him. "Please, all of you sit. Catch your breath." The royal consort, husband to the queen, gestured to the array of comfortably cushioned chairs. With only a nod, Ahamo apparently gave an order to the young guard, who in turn hurried to bring fresh water and sweet biscuits forward for the travellers.

The three sat, and DG moved to the chair closest to Wyatt. He'd been her second friend in the O.Z. and her truest, next to Glitch. Simply having him nearby, despite his news, brought a small amount of solace to the worried young woman.

Lavender and Ahamo sat, hands linked, and the queen stiffened her back in an unconscious gesture of control. Her voice barely registered her concern as she said, "I am Lavender. This is Ahamo." Forgoing titles brought the messengers onto a more equal footing, much as Jeb's sword of office did. "The boy sleeping there is called Kalm. I believe you are familiar with my younger daughter, Dorothy?"

"I am Jeb Cain and this is Dylan. This is Wyatt Cain, formerly a Tin Man." Jeb turned to Wyatt in deference of his connections rather than claiming rank officially. The older man had more right to expect to be listened to: he had saved DG's life numerous times.

Wyatt sat forward, looking the queen straight in the eyes, not informing his son he was well-known to the royal family already. His former station as bodyguard in the esteemed Mystic Man's Tin Men had clearly prepared him for addressing powerful political figures, as well. "The people believe the princess is not who she claims." As always, Wyatt led with a direct statement; he had never been a subtle man.

He had their full attention, though DG felt a swell of indignation followed by a small amount of fear deep in her core. "But I helped save them!"

Turning his attention to the younger woman, Wyatt nodded once. "And they honor you for that." He ran his hat brim through his hands, shaking his head at the guard's second attempt at offering refreshments, though the third messenger, Dylan, took water with apparent gratitude. Wyatt added, "they are aware of . . ."

Dylan finally spoke up, interrupting after his sip of water. "They want to love you for your bravery, your sacrifice, and your loyalty. But . . ." his voice dropped to a lower, warning note, "they recall your death fifteen annuals ago. They think you're an imposter, Your Highness." He had apparently not forgotten that he sat with the ruling family.

DG turned worried blue eyes on the resistance fighter, noting the kilt that marked him as one of Jeb's Eastern Fighters. "So, why would they hold that against my mother? She's still here." DG assumed that out of the entire family, Azkadellia would have been the least supported since her violent possession-fueled coup a few years previously.

Jeb interjected, "it's common belief that the queen," he nodded his head respectfully to the lady, "couldn't have her magic anymore or the witch wouldn't have been able to take control."

A fierce frown showed DG's dislike of that public knowledge. "Ahamo's still here . . . or do they believe he's a thief still?" Lavender had, after all, spread the tale of her husband's greed to protect him while he went into hiding.

"Actually, no," Jeb shook his head, finally turning to study the young woman who had apparently found a way to tap his normally withdrawn father's emotions. Jeb's thoughts remained hidden behind his own stone-like demeanor, a son very much in the image of the man who'd raised him. "They feel the theft charge was a misunderstanding. But he's not from the O.Z.," Jeb clarified. "The people don't feel they can fully trust him."

Standing suddenly, DG's mouth worked in silent indignation. The steady hand of Wyatt Cain pulling her back to her chair stopped her tirade before it could begin.

"And they see Azkadellia as a victim of the witch," her former bodyguard reported. "They think she's too weak to protect them if someone attacks in the future."

"And so, they look for a new, stronger protector they feel they can trust." Lavender summed up the threat in a calm manner, a small sigh the only indication of her fierce worry.

"Who?" DG turned to Wyatt, pulling her hand from his with a frustrated frown. She wondered why she'd left it there in the first place . . . like a child needing comfort or some such. "Do they even have someone picked out? The Mystic Man is dead, and I can't think of anyone else who's magic would be strong enough." She turned to look over Jeb then Dylan. "Or who'd be trusted enough."

"Leona."

"Princess Leona."

Lavender and Dylan spoke simultaneously then glanced at one another as Jeb broke in, running one hand roughly through his dark blond hair.

"Yes, Princess Leona is the name we've heard. As soon as Dylan brought us the news, we knew it was a serious threat so brought it to you." He leaned forward, hand falling to grip his knee. "The people don't seem too worried that she abdicated in favor of Princess Azkadellia. They think she's the only one able to help them."

Dylan sipped his water again and added "they're frightened."

Ahamo and Lavender shared an incomprehensible look then turned to Dylan. Ahamo's voice remained calm, though his habitual amusement had fled. "And what does Leona say? Will she try for the throne?"

The young messenger shook his head, platinum hair plastered wetly to his head with drying sweat resembling an odd helmet. "No one seems to know for sure . . . at least I haven't heard. None of our scouts have said as much."

Silence descended over the small group as they absorbed the implications. The sound of Kalm whimpering in his sleep drew the queen's attention and she rose to go to the boy. The others watched as the woman pulled the young Viewer into a gentle embrace, quieting him as he woke from dark dreams.

Finally, DG asked "who's Princess Leona? I think I've heard her name."

"Your mother's cousin," Ahamo supplied. "She was there when I arrived."

"Right," DG pointed at the husky older man. "The video. The one with the knife."

Her father nodded as Lavender guided a tired-looking Kalm to sit with the group.

"We need to talk to her . . . to find out her plans," Lavender said. She turned serious eyes on their visitors. "We need to see if she's even a part of this idea."

"Where does she live?" DG asked then backtracked to question "wait . . . wouldn't the witch have killed her, too?"

"No," assured Lavender and Dylan, again as one.

Ahamo stood. "No, she went further west to the grasslands." He offered a hand to his wife. "We can talk to her and find out what she plans, but we need to go quickly." His urgency inferred concern over just who else might approach the erstwhile princess.

DG frowned; it seemed she did that often now that she had become involved in politics. "What aren't you telling me? I have a right to know." Instinctively she turned to Wyatt as if he might explain like so many times on their previous quest.

Wyatt shook his head, but Lavender clarified "Marresura . . . she's a collector of magic . . ."

The name meant nothing to DG, but Wyatt's reaction let her know this woman could be a truly viable threat. His back stiffened, his crystal-blue eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched on the armrests of his chair. "I thought she'd been killed," he said, tone balancing between concern and, oddly enough, anger.

Ahamo shook his head. "No. In fact, when Azkadellia was first possessed, we thought it might be Marresura. She's been obsessed with Az before."

With a soft clearing of his throat, Dylan drew the attention. "However, there are still some Long Coats who would like to get their power back. It's possible they could try to manipulate Leona." He flushed slightly. "She's never been known for her . . . ah . . . sharp wits?" The former resistance fighter lowered his eyes after the royal insult.

Lavender nodded in surprising acquiescence. "That is another possibility. What was the name of their leader? Zero?" She frowned in remembrance of the former youthful bodyguard from Az's childhood. "As the Long Coats aren't known for their gentle techniques we have all the more reason to hurry." Finally she took her husband's outstretched hand and allowed him to assist her in rising. "DG, you cannot come with us," she commanded gently before the young woman could offer. "Azkadellia will need your help if something happens while we're away."

"But . . ." DG didn't get to finish her protest as her father agreed.

"And," the royal consort turned to Wyatt Cain, "we need to ask if you'll take up your Tin Man duties once again to protect DG during this."

Jeb stiffened but didn't deny that his father was perhaps the best choice as a royal guardian . . . especially for the most headstrong in a family of independent thinkers.

Wyatt seemed to stiffen and DG jumped in. "I don't need protection." She immediately contradicted this claim by saying "I have an entire regiment of guards." She gestured to the nearby royal guard as emphasis, hoping to spare Wyatt from what seemed to be a disagreeable task for him. He'd been surly almost the entire quest while protecting her and had disappeared as soon as his obligations had ended.

Her mother cupped her face. "But none of them know what Marresura looked like. Officer Cain has met her."

Surprise lit DG's features and she turned to Wyatt. "You have?"

_Dark brown hair wound tightly in a crisp bun on the top of her head, the hazel-eyed woman in the form-fitting brown dress and shaper stopped at the entrance to the large, well trodden courtyard. Crossing her arms over her ample chest, she glared down her nose at the gathering youths in their common wear._

_Carefully, the fifteen annual old with the dark blond hair and slate gray eyes slipped past the woman and strode over to the edge of the group. He stopped next to a sturdy boy with light blond hair and almost electric light blue eyes dressed in worn worker's clothes. "Hello, I'm . . ."_

_The woman called loudly, interrupting the teen, "Zero, do not worry about your obligations. I am sure Private Randu will fill in nicely with the princess in your absence." Her face twisted into a smile of malice._

_The teen called Zero didn't turn, merely stiffening, a fierce frown crossing his face._

_The lighter-haired Wyatt Cain glanced past their newest member to the woman behind, no emotion showing in his crystal blue eyes. "I'm Wyatt Cain. Who's that?"_

_Zero sighed and flipped his hair from his grey eyes. "Her name is Marresura, the Royal Magical Tutor." He dropped his tone and mumbled, "my mother."_

_Wyatt looked from the woman to the teen and back again. Finally, he settled his attention on the other youth. "My father thought I should have another choice aside from blacksmith," he offered the un-asked-for explanation for his presence in the Youth Training Regiment._

_With a slight smile, apparently glad of the change in subject, still trying to ignore his watchful parent, Zero said, "my father was in the Royal Army and I'm going to join when I'm old enough."_

_With a nod, Wyatt turned his attention to the front of the milling young men. He'd never been one to make friends quickly, but he thought he might like the eager wanna-be soldier. Glancing briefly at the still watchful woman, Wyatt suppressed a shudder at the fairly malevolent vibes washing from her. He could like the son, but Wyatt thought he could never come to like the mother: there was something . . ._ off _about her._

"Yes," Wyatt sighed, pushing away that first in a series of meetings. "I'd rather it be the Long Coats. I can handle Zero." He stood and offered his hand to Ahamo. "I'll do it."

Too surprised to stop the deal, DG watched as the pair shook hands.

Her mother gently pushed Kalm to DG's side. "We'll travel light and write back as soon as we have news." The older couple quickly embraced their daughter and left the room without a backward glance for their visitors or further hint at their emotions. The guard ran after them.

Once the footsteps faded, DG shook herself and turned to Wyatt, instinctively stepping a bit closer to the confused Kalm. "And now what do we do?"

Jeb took the lead at once, cutting off his father. "The three of us will keep watch here and find out any more about who's plotting and what to expect."

Dylan nodded in agreement.

Wyatt sighed and glanced over the small group. He said nothing, however, as he moved to look out the tower window over the broken landscape and the low hanging moon. His silence only reinforced DG's worry.

xxx

A long time passed while Wyatt Cain studied the view from the tower window. Jeb and Dylan had taken seats once more and quietly discussed plans for security of Central City and those currently in the Western Tower. DG stood by the door, one arm around a very sleepy looking Kalm. A feeling of unease permeated the room.

Finally, Wyatt turned his head and studied DG. Seeing her worried expression something seemed to click in his memory, and he asked "when we came you said I'd heard something. What was it?"

Startled by the sudden question, DG looked up, blinking vibrant blue eyes. "Oh! Uh . . . Glitch. I thought you were here because of Glitch's surgery."

Crystal blue eyes widening, Wyatt turned fully, frowning. "Surgery?"

"He's getting his brain put back in," DG's voice mirrored her anxiety and she reached out to pat Kalm's arm.

A soft noise from the hall drew all attention; Jeb and Dylan rose to their feet. Azkadellia, looking drained and barely awake, walked in followed by Raw, appearing equally exhausted. As DG reached a hand out to touch her sister's arm, Az smiled gently.

"He's sleeping in recovery now." The older woman looked at the younger. "They aren't certain if his synapses will completely connect, but there is hope. His neurological responses are encouraging so far."

Raw spoke in his gruff voice. "Sleep now." He reached out to grip Kalm's shoulder, pulling the boy to his side then turning and guiding him from the room.

Holding up her hand, not questioning the presence of the three men, Az said, "Please come, DG. I'll need help. I'm exhausted. He can be visited in the morning, not before."

DG opened her mouth, but Wyatt cut her off. "Go ahead, Princess. I'll stay up. I'll get you if anything happens." He nodded to his son and Dylan, as well. "You two, find rooms. We'll discuss strategy with the princesses tomorrow."

With an answering nod, promising herself to explain about Glitch in the morning, DG obeyed Wyatt's order because it made sense; his orders always made sense. Fortunately, her sister never asked why Wyatt Cain had returned or what happened to their parents. The younger sister didn't feel like explaining anything right then. Her hand shot up to cover a yawn and she ended in a sigh.

Wyatt was right. It was time for bed.


	8. Living Through History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azkadellia is about to give a history lesson. To make things easier, I have included (in the bottom notes) a chart often found in school texts across the O.Z. with notes marked by former student Ambrose on common identifiers (italics). This will be included at the end of every chapter from here on in so it might be referred to as information pops up.
> 
> Last Chapter: While awaiting news on Ambrose's surgery, Wyatt's group arrives and informs the royals about the possible coup. Wyatt recalls meeting Zero as teens.

Light flashed into DG's eyes, making her sit up with a start. She looked around in confusion at the opulent onyx and gold room. She knew she'd be late to her job but . . . memory settled in and she frowned, turning towards the large windows she normally kept curtained at night.

Stepping softly, Azkadellia, dressed in a soft butter yellow robe and satin slippers, long black hair trailing to her waist, strode to the bed and stopped with a welcoming smile. "We have a couple of hours before we can talk to Ambrose. Let me dress you."

Only a couple of weeks ago, DG would have balked at the offer. Their tastes didn't exactly match. However, the sisters hadn't had much time together even after the witch melted. With a couple of hours to kill, DG relented and smiled gamely. "Sure. Why not?" She stood and hurried to a closed door that led to a water closet, as Az called it, which they shared; another door connected to Az's bedroom on the other side.

Once finished with her morning necessaries, DG came back into the bedroom and stopped just over the threshold. She watched as her sister rooted through the closet of O.Z. clothing DG tended to avoid. Repressing a sigh, DG stepped over to the other woman and pasted a weak smile on her face. "No jeans today?"

"No jeans," Az laughed in reply. She threw a smile over her shoulder and turned, several items in her hands. "However, in deference to your . . . preferences I thought you might wish common clothing to that of the aristocracy." She offered the soft, sturdy linen blouse and woven cotton skirt, both of a deep blue. In her other hand, she held a lighter blue shaper and matching stockings.

DG made a face. She couldn't help it. "A corset? Really?" She dreaded the hours of discomfort and lack of air she could foresee.

"Corset?" Az looked at the clothing she carried then laughed and looked back at DG. "No, a shaper. This goes outside the clothes and helps show your curves. It does not get tied tightly. Every young girl in Central City puts one on at puberty." She looked thoughtfully at the near-mutinous expression in DG's eyes. "It's a rite of passage for women. Just like putting our hair up if we are no longer available for marriage. Something all young brides do. And putting off ribbons or barrettes at puberty, as well: the mark of leaving childhood."

A soft snort interrupted Az and both women looked under DG's bed. There laid a scruffy brown and grey dog, paws stretched in front of his nose, eyes closed and tongue tip slightly protruding in sleep. He snorted again, shifted his head, ran a paw twice over his muzzle, and sighed, drifting off once more. The sisters looked at one another and laughed softly.

"I guess Tutor's exhausted," DG explained to which Az nodded and held up the clothes. The younger sister acquiesced with a shrug. She began to strip from the night shirt and trousers she'd used for pajamas.

Lifting her arms, DG allowed Az to slip the blouse over her head. Settling the fine fabric around her hips, DG lifted one leg to step into the skirt but her sister slipped that over her head, as well. "So, you wear your hair up but you aren't married, Az." She tried to keep the conversation light, half of her mind on the passing time and Glitch's recovery. Az seemed to stiffen and the reaction surprised DG. "Az?"

Azkadellia shook her head once and pulled the skirt to DG's waist, carefully smoothing it over her blouse. She fastened the shaper over the shirt and skirt then smoothed it carefully before stepping back, a soft frown on her face. Finally, she raised her dark brown eyes to meet DG's lighter blue ones. "Sit. You haven't learned the history of your homeland yet."

"Okay . . ." DG dragged out the two syllables as she stepped to the bed, mildly surprised that the soft, plain clothes weren't uncomfortable. The outfit seemed similar in feel to her waitress uniform from the Other Side, except the material felt nicer and didn't smell of burnt cheese and fried onions. Carefully, DG sat on the edge of the bed, turning her back when Az picked up a brush and sank down behind her. "Okay, history," DG prompted.

Taking a long, slow breath, Az let the air out then carefully brushed a hand down DG's brown hair. "Over five hundred annuals ago there were twelve clans of the Outer Zone and many more in the lands beyond the desert which marks the boundary of the O.Z." She dropped the stockings over DG's shoulder, into her lap, then she continued talking. "At that time the Tenebris Clan started taking over the entire O.Z., killing and terrorizing everyone. The only clan able to stand against Tenebris was the Lux Clan. The Lux Clan was led by Queen Ozma, mother of Prince Ozma. They sent a travel storm to the Other Side and were able to bring over a young woman with a strong light magic. This was our ancestor Dorothy Gale."

Poking DG's shoulder, brush held loosely in one hand, Az said softly, "Put on your stockings or I won't tell you the story." Her tone sounded light, though sad.

"Okay, so Dorothy came and helped Ozma defeat Tenebris?" DG put one foot on the bed and started sliding the stocking over her toes, wonderfully surprised by how the silk felt.

"Tenebris is a clan, but yes. Dorothy helped defeat the leader of the ruling house, called Fugae. She had help from other clan people: a viewer, a guild fighter, and a vinkus noble. The witch was then entrapped in the cave near Finaqua."

DG whirled around, stunned. "But if you knew that . . . "

"No," Az shook her head. "I learned this part from the witch. It's a history normally taught in later school days." She reached out and gently took DG's shoulders to turn her back around. "The other foot, too," she said in an apparent effort at gentle humor.

"Okay . . ." DG nodded and quickly slipped the other stocking on, ignoring the delicious feel of the silk. "Then what?"

"Dorothy married Prince Ozma, turning the House of Ozma into the House of Gale." Before DG could question that point, Az added, "The Lux Clan follows the maternal family. A young man took over Tenebris Clan. A younger son, I believe, as the royal family remained the House of Fugae. And so the twelve clans rebuilt and renewed their harmony. Marriages were arranged among the lesser houses between clans to foster this peace." The older woman sighed and picked up the brush from her lap.

Carefully she began to stroke the bristles through DG's soft hair while the younger woman absorbed the history lesson, knowing that Az would eventually come to the reason she kept her hair up. At the moment DG felt it might have something to do with the witch's control and long years of habit, but DG refused to say so. She didn't want to hurt Azkadellia.

After a long moment of silent brushing, Az's voice sounded in the morning-lit room. "About ten annuals before I was born the House of Shiz fell into disruption."

"Shiz? Who's that?" DG turned only to be gently turned once more.

"Shiz was the main ruling family of the Mortem Clan. The Mortem Clan, like the Lux Clan, was made of gilikenese families . . . what you call humans, I believe. The House of Shiz encouraged learning simple magical energy manipulation and transformation and even founded and maintained the most prestigious learning centers throughout the O.Z. I believe Ambrose was educated in their learning center to the north of Central City." Az stroked DG's hair from her right shoulder, pulling it back carefully and tying a ribbon around the lock of hair. She smiled as DG began to watch in the mirror across the room.

"So, was it Tenebris Clan again?" DG asked.

"No," replied Az. She braided the simple white ribbon around the lock she'd gathered. "No one was exactly certain what had happened. People supposed it might have been an internal struggle. Whatever the reason, the royal family was lost and their main seat of power, Shiz Academy, was abandoned. Without governance, their people were confused and frightened and so Mother took in the refugees. Most of the Mortem Clan was absorbed into the Lux Clan and the O.Z. became eleven clans rather than twelve. The school was never reopened, which is why the nobles of Lux instead hired tutors to educated their children."

A loud snore drew the women's attention to the small dog under the bed. His stunted legs kicked in his dream, as if running at high speed, and DG turned an amused smile on Az. They both started laughing at their magical tutor's sleep antics.

DG turned back around and gestured for Az to continue with her hair. "So, are the gilikenese all shifters?"

Chuckling at that, Az began to braid. "Stars no. Imagine if everyone had access to magic. Only the very gifted can manipulate magic energies. And each clan has a special connection to one type of energy. Lux Clan is connected to light energy." She dropped the first plait and began brushing on the left. "The remaining clans were worried about what the loss of the Mortem Clan could mean and how it could have happened. They had no idea who was responsible, so a council of the eleven was held. They discussed the normal political worries as well as the fact that we should stand united against our enemies from beyond the deserts. It was commonly believed that someone from beyond may have had a hand in this recent destruction in conjunction with a disgruntled lesser noble or even royal of the House of Shiz. All agreed and it was determined that if messengers came from one clan for help, the others should seriously consider sending aid."

"Uh oh," DG sighed. To her it sounded like someone might have set the council up for a fall. "Let me guess . . . another rebellion happens?" She was beginning to get restless with their rather violent history.

"No," Az shook her head, long hair swinging caressingly over her torso. "Two years later, eight years before my birth, the House of Terrae of Nature Clan had a son and heir. This was a rare event in Nature Clan, as the royal family often proved childless and would adopt their heirs from the children of trusted allies and advisors. Suddenly, for the first time since the downfall of the dark witch, House Terrae had a royal infant. Within weeks of the grand event a messenger came from the House of Rimi in Aquam Clan. Aquam Clan are situated to the far north, where our ice palace is, and they are often independent and strong. The only other time they had been threatened was by the dark witch. Naturally, The House of Terrae sheltered the messenger as they listened to his pleas."

"And the bastard made off with the silver in the night," DG cynically stated. Suddenly her eyes widened and she turned quickly, yanking her hair painfully from her sister's nimble fingers. "No, wait. The baby! That bastard stole Terrae's baby! And the Aquam Clan destroyed Shiz, too." DG filled in.

"No!" Az shook her head, horror lighting her face. "They never sent the messenger to begin with. It was a ploy, but no one knows whom by." She sighed and slipped a hand to DG's shoulder. "And, yes, the heir was kidnapped and never recovered. It is believed to this day that Orez of the House of Terrae is dead." She sighed, bowing her head in respect. Before her sister could say anything, Az lifted her face once more. "And now we get to my part, if you let me finish your hair." Her voice had softened at the tragedy she'd just relayed.

DG nodded and turned back to face the mirror, seeing the sorrow reflected on her sister's face. She felt the brush begin once more to run through her hair, her sister's gentle fingers to gather the mass, to find the right lock of hair.

Az's voice sounded soft yet firm. "Another council was called to find the child and his abductor, but nothing ever came of it. As far as I heard, the trail led to the destroyed learning center of Shiz and disappeared. To prevent another such infiltration, passcodes were created to communicate with each clan. Without the passcodes, visitors could be killed on sight, if the clan members so chose. Also, certain conditions must be met to send pleas for help. These passcodes and conditions were known only to the royal families and their most trusted advisors. Aside from special admittance, the eleven clans would remain autonomous. Inter-marriages had ceased . . . except by special arrangement."

Finally, Az began braiding the lock of hair. "In order to aid the Nature Clan, Lavender made an offer of her first born child, male or female, in betrothal to their first born or adopted child. Once one of the royal families produced a second child, called a spare, the first would go to live and eventually rule in the opposite clan."

"Whoa," DG turned, once more pulling her hair from her sister's grasp and inadvertently undoing the work. "Does that mean that with me here, you're supposed to go to this Nature Clan?" Her quick mind linked the bits of information together and she pointed at Az. "You're betrothed already. That's why you wear your hair up."

Az rose to her feet and sighed. "Yes and no." She sent a glare to her younger sister. "You aren't making this easier, DG."

"Well, you've just dropped this bombshell on me, Az! If you're the heir and I'm the spare, and the heir goes to the other Clan, then I've just become heir."

"Technically, DG, you've been heir to the House of Gale since you were born and I was seven." Az whirled towards the window and gripped the brush tightly in her hand. "Lavender . . . Mother signed the treaty with the rulers of the Nature Clan. At my birth, my name was filled in during a ceremony at House Terrae in the Thousand Year Grasslands."

"I . . ." DG knew their parents were headed there to find their cousin: a fact she had yet to mention to her sister.

But Az would brook no further interruptions. Apparently annuals of keeping this inside needed sharing at last. "The annual after I was born, House Terrae had another son, named Flint." She turned and looked at DG, pain shadowing her dark eyes. "We were to travel to their palace to sign the treaty in his name. Then would come the wait to see who produced the spare and relinquished their heir. Before we could even leave Central City, the House of Terrae was attacked from the inside and a massacre occurred. No one knows for certain if any of the ruling family survived . . . including Flint." She raised a hand to prevent DG interrupting. "Thus, the Nature Clan withdrew completely into hiding and our cousin Leona with it. She moved out there when I was born. The gates were barred even to the House of Gale and, without the proper passcodes, no one will be allowed inside the royal halls nor given access to the people. The only message they sent was that they would further discuss our betrothal arrangement when I reached adulthood."

DG walked quickly to her sister and gave her a hug. She pulled back and asked, "and what did they say?"

"Nothing." Az replied, turning DG around and brushing her hair yet again, though she seemed to give up on braiding the left side at all. "The witch took over when I was twelve and none of the royal houses have contacted the House of Gale since. But," she turned her sister to face her and offered a brave looking smile, "I wear my hair up in honor of Flint . . . and Orez before him. If the House of Terrae ever produces their heir, I will marry him and go to rule the Thousand Year Grasslands. And it isn't as if I found someone I wish to marry . . ." She looked suddenly, fiercely sad and added, "at least who still lives."

"Oh!" DG shook her head, deliberately changing the subject to try to ease Az's pain. "Mom and Dad went to the Thousand Year Grasslands to visit Leona. Cain came last night and told us that the people want her to rule." She sighed and turned her head, glancing at her sister sideways, judging the other woman's reaction to the news.

With a smile, Az nodded. "Good. We need Leona on our side. She should come back." Az moved to the dresser and placed the brush down. "But since we may need them if a coup does happen, let me tell you the passcodes." She turned and straightened, smoothing her dressing gown and looking as if they'd never discussed the death of her future husband or the destruction of three clans.

"DG, if a messenger is sent to a clan one of two things must happen. Either the messengers are made up of members of that clan or the messengers are only a pair. One foreign messenger will be taken as a hoax and imprisoned, turned away, or killed. More than two will be seen as an invading army and dealt with accordingly. Of the two messengers, one must be of royal blood or one of the acknowledged advisors from the clan he or she represents. For instance, if we needed help from the Corde Clan, or the viewers, we could either send one of us or we could send Raw or Kalm. For the Cogitatio Clan centered in Milltown, we could send Hank or Emily. Once there, certain rites or rituals would be displayed in order to convince the people the messengers are genuine."

Eyes widening, DG looked at her unblemished right palm. "Like a glowing oval swirly on the hand?"

Az frowned and tilted her head slightly. "The Crest of Gale? Yes, set in magic and presented is one of the traditional signs of need. In fact, if a group chose to ignore numbers, the magical emblem could even get a small group into the inner sanctum of a clan." As if realizing things for the first time, Az's eyes widened to equal DG's and she asked, "is that how you got past the Cyborgs and the Guild Fighters and the Papay?"

"Uh, it's how I got in to see Father View and how I healed a tree for the Papay so they'd let me pass, yeah. And it's how I got into the Northern Palace." DG looked at her nondescript hand once more. "But it disappeared after awhile, once I was about to invade this tower."

Laughter drew DG's attention and Az smiled at her. "That's amazing. Mother truly outwitted the witch in the end." She turned back to DG. "We may as well dress and discuss security with your Officer Cain. I see he's returned."

DG nodded. "Yeah, he's a Tin Man again." She rolled her eyes. "Dad put him in charge of protecting me until they get back."

Az smiled and nodded. "Good. You need someone to pull you out of trouble. I can no longer do it." She threw a wicked grin at DG who interpreted it correctly as teasing. "I'm going to get dressed and meet you at Ambrose's room."

"Yes, Glitch!" DG smiled, checked the clock and groaned. "Ten more minutes." She turned to study herself in the mirror, made a face at the oddly beribboned braid, but didn't disturb it. Her sister had shared with her, and DG cherished that more than looking like her familiar self. She waved one hand at Az and called, "see you in ten," before heading out the door. Somehow she doubted it would take Az only ten minutes to ready herself for the day.

Behind her, Az turned to stare out the window and study the horizon, looking for something only she knew and never expected to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	9. A Time for Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Az gives DG a history and culture lesson while revealing her own betrothal.

Early morning sunlight shimmered across the gold-flecked onyx marble floor. Three men stood in the main sitting room seemingly unaware of their opulent surroundings. Despite the public room, the men appeared to be dressing, though no discarded clothes sat around, denoting they were merely putting the finishing touches on their new outfits. As they slipped into the brown and gold jackets that completed the royal uniforms they wore, the men spoke in low tones.

"Look, if this gets bad, we're going to need backup. We need a way to get the family and staff into safety, too." Wyatt settled the jacket on his wide shoulders, feeling odd to once more sport a uniform. He began buttoning the jacket, privately comparing the sturdy outfit with the emerald and silver uniform he'd worn while serving as the Mystic Man's Tin Man. There seemed to be little difference aside from the color; allegiance to the Mystic Man had ultimately meant allegiance to the House of Gale.

Jeb settled the sword belt over his slim hips. He seemed uncomfortable in the new uniform, long used to the piecemeal ragged denim and scarlet neckerchief he'd worn as a resistance fighter. "I've heard that if Lux asks for help, the messengers are killed. It's why no one was able to get help during the witch's reign."

Wrapping a long, braided leather whip around his waist, Dylan glanced up. Without looking, his nimble fingers clipped the whip in place, leaving the strong heavy handle dangling over his right hip in preparation of quick access. No opinion of his current clothing registered on his face. "There is a way . . ."

"Hello. Wow! Nice. . ."

DG's voice drew the attention of all three men, Wyatt turning fully, hands stilling on the buttons of his jacket. The woman stood there finally dressed in a traditional loose blouse, long skirt, and camisole of blue, turning her from a child of a foreign land to a woman of the O.Z. Her hair flowed half-down her back in ripples, signaling her single state, yet one lock had been intricately braided in a white ribbon, suggesting she had a suitor. However, despite DG's beautiful transformation, Wyatt's lips twitched as he noticed she ran around in stocking feet. He hadn't known her to eschew shoes before, but he wouldn't put anything past her.

"Brown is good on you," DG added, not clarifying which man she spoke of. "I'm going to visit Glitch. Wanna come?"

Wyatt nodded and closed the last two buttons on his jacket. Reaching for his gun belt, he said, "I'll catch up, Princess. We're discussing security."

Normally she would have thrown herself into the discussion, but her worry for their friend appeared to hold sway over her. "Right. Fill me in later." She smiled at the two other men and turned, leaving as quickly and quietly as she'd arrived.

Watching the empty door, slowing fastening the belt over his hips and settling the revolver in place, Wyatt looked thoughtful, frowning. A hand on his shoulder made him jump and he whirled around, facing his son, Jeb.

"I heard she was raised by nurture units?" the younger man asked. His darker blond hair fell over his grey-blue eyes, making him appear rakish.

With a nod, Wyatt responded, "Yeah, on the Other Side. Names of Hank and Emily."

Jeb looked towards the door then back at his father, frowning slightly. "Maybe they can go into Milltown and ask for support from the House of Idae?"

"Father View?" Wyatt filled in. He nodded, crystal blue eyes narrowed in thought. "That would work. Raw can go to the Viewers and see if they'll help, too. We should send them as soon as possible." He looked towards the hall once more. "And we need an escape plan in case of attack."

A thoughtful look on his pale face, Dylan opened his mouth to speak but the sound of running boots interrupted, causing all three men to whirl towards the door, reaching for their weapons.

Azkadellia, still in dressing gown and slippers, hair hastily piled on her head and tied with a dark ribbon, hurried into the room but signalled the two guards accompanying her to go on. As they ran off, she called to the newest royal Tin Men, "a platoon of men on horseback are approaching the tower." She put a hand over her mid-abdomen. "Dressed in Long Coat gear." Her tone revealed her knowledge that the news would not be welcome.

Quickly moving to her side, Jeb's voice sounded tight and urgent. "How long before they get here?" Apparently, despite spending annuals fighting the formerly possessed princess, the leader of the resistance put his dislike and even his distrust aside in their mutual distress.

"Ten minutes?" Az guessed, turning to the younger man. No recognition of the younger Cain showed in her brown eyes; she had never met independent members of the fighting force against the witch.

Dylan stiffened. "We need to invoke the Clan Cooperation Treaty." He ran a hand through his platinum-tinted locks and turned his steel-grey eyes on the princess. "How many advisors are available?"

Shock crossed Az's features as she whirled to the other young man. "How did you know?"

Jeb looked confused, but no one took the time to explain. Rather Dylan shook his head and reached out to grip Az's wrist. "No time, Princess. We need to send parlay and the advisors are needed for that."

Az stiffened but said, "You are correct. Several pairs will be quicker but we haven't many advisors to send. Raw and Tutor are the only ones available."

As if called by his name or their concern, Raw entered the room with young Kalm in his wake. Both wore the traditional furred robes of their people, but those garments were in pristine order with a hint of brown and gold woven through the fabric to denote their status in the royal house. The elder appeared to take in the situation at first glance since he crossed his arms and frowned. "Raw take Kalm north."

"Yes," Az turned and glanced over the viewers she'd been forced to imprison and torture not long ago. "Let Hank and Emily know to go to Milltown. Tell them to ask for clan cooperation peace for Lux. Tell them they must have no more or less than a pair when they ask." The princess didn't clarify her orders. She turned her head and asked, "who will go west? East?"

Dylan stepped into Raw's path and held up a hand. "If we don't have enough to cover all clans, we need a meeting point to regroup before sending to the remaining ones. I recommend Shiz Academy. Only vagrants use it now and the Long Coats may not see it as a threat."

"Done. Raw, cover Mount Runcible, too," Wyatt said, signalling Raw to get Kalm out of there. As the two passed Dylan, the Tin Man said, "I'll get DG and we can go east to the Guild Fighters." He headed for the door then turned. "Someone needs to tell the queen."

Jeb nodded. "I'll catch up to them and let them know then gather who I can from the resistance. That leaves the south." He turned his steel-blue eyes on the princess and said "if you take Dylan, you'll be a pair. Will that do for this parlay?"

Dylan tugged gently on Az's wrist. "It will. We'll cover the Papay, Finaqua, and the Unwanted." He looked at Az. "We'll get you clothes once we're safer." Without further pause he tugged again on the princess's wrist and led her out the door and down the hall, towards a back exit.  
The father and son looked at one another and Wyatt put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Stay safe, Jeb. We'll meet at Shiz."

With a brief nod, Jeb whirled around and sprinted down a different hall from Dylan or Raw.  
Wyatt left at a run as well, taking the stairs towards sub-level three and the brain storage-surgery suites . . . the elevator would take too long. He needed to get DG out of there . . . and find a way to protect the defenseless Glitch from this invasion.

xxx

Something disturbed his sleep. The small brown and grey, scruffy looking dog opened brown eyes, jaw stretching wide in a huge yawn. He rolled to his belly and, butt rising first, stretched long and luxuriously. Giving a slight wag to his tail, the shape shifter looked around, small ears perking at a strange noise. He froze, listening.

Gunfire . . . running boots . . . screams . . .

Horror filled the little dog as flashes of a former coup shuddered over him. Older than he appeared, distracted by the remembered horror of the witch's violent bid for power, the magical tutor became aware of his own danger too late.

Someone smelling of leather and sulfur scooped up the dog sometimes called Toto. Without pause, the man roughly slipped a hard, unyielding collar over the small furry head and clicked a button on the back. Oddly enough, a slight vibration seemed to emanate from the collar.

The shape shifter reacted without thought, reaching his head around and sinking his teeth into the exposed flesh just above the man's thick glove.

With a yelp, the unidentified attacker dropped the small mongrel.

Taking advantage, Toto sprinted from the room and into chaos. In only minutes, the hall had filled with smoke and a trio of unmoving bodies sprawled where they had fallen, guardians of the royal sleeping hall no more. The sound of gunfire had moved further off, but the dog didn't pause, he ran pell-mell down a side hall and towards the servant stairs.

The violence was no less on the ground floor as Toto found himself forced to dodge a set of men dressed in the black leather and long trench coats of the witch's guard. He didn't let himself wonder about the ramifications, knowing he would have the luxury of thought after he escaped. Rather, the small dog headed at top speed for one of the narrow, high casements lining the hallway.

Gathering his strength, praying for the small bit of magic he possessed to aid his flight, the dog jumped for the four foot high ledge.

Having made the impossible leap, he continued his mad dash, vaulting from the window and into the tall white flowers of the western moon garden. Lifting his nose to the air, he tried to scent a familiar person . . . a friend in the madness. Surprise vibrated along his spine . . . or was it the cursed collar . . . and he turned to chase after the scent he'd caught.

As he ran up to the quickly moving man, he let out a small yip. The man, dressed in royal brown and gold, turned, a look of surprise crossing his young features. Toto took the time to acknowledge that this was Jeb Cain, son of the former Tin Man, Wyatt Cain. Yipping again, the dog leapt at the former resistance fighter.

The young man had fine reflexes, catching Toto in midair. "What the hell?" he questioned, voice shocked.

Toto yipped again, knowing he couldn't explain in dog-form, but not wanting to take the time and exhausting effort of shifting into a man. Rather, he shoved his nose into Jeb's neck then pointed his muzzle to the west, encouraging the eighteen annual old man to get them out of this nightmare. He figured he could explain later, once they were relatively safe.

Jeb seemed to accept that he'd acquired a four-legged companion, because the man simply hugged the small dog closer and ran, crouched, towards the west. The cracked, bare land offered little cover, but the resistance fighter used what he could as he carried his new companion away from the Western Dark Tower and towards an unknown future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	10. A Twisted Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: The coup begins suddenly and everyone has to escape. Toto winds up joining Jeb at the last minute.

Shortly after reaching the first sub-level, Wyatt Cain heard the disturbing sounds of heavy boots in a marching tattoo. He ran to the next stair access, fleetingly wondering why the architect hadn't simply connected the floors with one central stairwell. The sounds of gunfire made him jump, and he skipped every other step down to sub-level two, hoping to buy some time.

Quiet permeated the third sub-level. Only a handful of medicos walked around among the labs and rooms. Wyatt pelted from the stairwell and called "Everyone out! Leave now!"

Still on edge, even after nearly a month of peace, the medicos didn't ask why. They apparently saw a royal guard in earnest and decided to listen. Men and woman in white suits with yellow coats and aprons headed for the little used back stairs. Oddly, none of them chose to use the dungeon stairs leading to the sewage and exhaust tunnels which could have been a viable escape route.

Wyatt shook his head and called out "DG?"

She must have heard the commotion as she ran out of a room nearby. "Cain?" She hurried over to him, worry lighting her vivid eyes.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the closest room, shutting the door to give them a bit of protection. He glanced quickly over the disused lab; shelves, counters, and tables stood piled with mechanical debris of all descriptions; a tall computer cabinet had been pushed into the corner behind the door. Briefly, the Tin Man determined the shell might effectively hide the smaller form of DG if needed.

"Cain?" she prompted, drawing his attention.

"The tower's under attack by Long Coats," he supplied. "You need to get out of here . . . through the exhaust system for the Sun Seeder. The tunnels are still there."

She shook her head and said in a firm voice, "not without Glitch."

A frown slammed down over his features; he recognized that tone. "DG there's no time. I can protect Glitch. I need you to . . ."

"No, Mister Cain. I'm not leaving." She crossed her arms and glared back at him. "You can protect Glitch and I'll protect myself."

Wyatt sighed. He didn't have the luxury of arguing; however, as the sounds of gunfire echoed from the second floor stairwell. "Do as I say!" he ordered brusquely then whirled DG around and scooped up her hair. Grabbing her long braid, he wrapped it around the lot then tied the ribbon ends, forming a simple ponytail. He reached for a handful of silver colored washers and dull gold nuts from the counter nearby, sorting through them quickly.

Very quietly, tone alert, DG asked "what the hell?"

He shook his head, raised a well-worn nut, the edges practically smooth with age, and eyed it. Grabbing her left hand, he slipped the nut onto her ring finger. "Long Coats are known to kidnap and rape single women, DG. They hesitate to face an angry husband. Do not tell them your real name or even a real husband can't protect you."

"Then I guess it's lucky most people don't know my nickname here," DG whispered.

A loud bang and the door slamming open brought the pair spinning around. A man with shorn brown hair and watchful eyes strode in, heavy boots striking a loud rhythm on the stone flooring. His uniform sported the metal shoulder-guard of a high ranking Long Coat, though it also prevented him from wearing the traditional black trench coat. He looked over the man in the guard uniform and the pretty lady whose hand he held. The invader signaled his troop to continue down the hall.

Wyatt straightened and challenged the vaguely familiar looking man. "Who are you? Why are you here?" He did not touch the gun at his waist, knowing it would be construed as a threat. For now, he went with acting the surprised guard with no killer instinct.

With an inscrutable smile, the man replied, "I am General Randu. I am under the command of the royal family and over the tower guards. You work for me." His voice sounded pleasant, though an undercurrent of command threaded the words. "Report, soldier."

No hesitation colored Wyatt's low baritone as he promptly answered the supposed military commander. "Lieutenant Wyatt Cain, medico guard for the Western Tower, Sir."

Randu appeared to study Wyatt but apparently did not recognize the man or his name, though Wyatt knew of Zero's former second-in-command. "And," the Long Coat leader drawled, "who is the pretty lady?" His eyes roamed DG's form liberally.

Again without pausing, Wyatt said "my wife. She teaches the staff's little ones." He prayed that DG would follow his lead and not protest the background he'd just created for her protection.

Thankfully the younger woman didn't even blink. She merely stayed still and quiet. Wyatt knew that the submissive behavior wouldn't last long, so he went on the offensive once more. "The Long Coats were disbanded when the queen returned, Sir . . . weren't they?" He infused his tone with hopefully the right amount of uncertain bravado.

Laughing, Randu shook his head. "Ah, but there is a new queen now. Queen Lavender has not presented a challenge to Queen Leona, thus Queen Leona now has the throne."

Slowly, as if struggling with the concept, Wyatt nodded. "Long live the queen . . ."

Randu laughed again and seemed to accept Wyatt's acquiescence for the time being. He glanced back at DG, who nodded once.

She softly added, "Long live Queen Leona?" Surprisingly she sounded much like Azkadellia had upon first being freed from possession.

The idea unsettled Wyatt.

The general asked, almost casual sounding, "and are there patients you are guarding, Lieutenant?"

Pretending to trust in this man's as yet unproven credentials, Wyatt nodded, his behavior geared at making it seem he'd gone no further up the ranks due to complacency and slow wits. Wyatt replied rather quickly "one of the mechanics. Head injury and coma." He didn't elaborate further, as he claimed to be a guard not a medico, so he wouldn't know specifics.

Seeming to accept the simple reply, the other man grinned widely and quickly glanced over DG again, who still stood quietly holding Wyatt's hand. Laughing suddenly, Randu nodded. "Well, soon enough, Mrs. Cain, you'll be promoted to Royal Tutor, I've no doubt."

Surprise registered on DG's features. "Oh? Is someone pregnant?" She looked to Wyatt as if verifying permission for speaking.

Shaking his head, Randu's smile widened. "Not yet, but my suit is going nicely and I look forward to a hasty marriage and lots of . . . royal babies." He bowed his head as if in humility, but nothing about his grin bespoke anything less than arrogant pride.

"Congratulations, General?" DG replied softly, glancing at Wyatt again then quickly away as if shy, the veritable picture of a nervous new bride.

"Ho ho!" Randu chuckled. "And do I sense another pregnancy?"

DG's eyes widened and she flushed, but Wyatt, who looked equally shocked, knew her reaction was from anger at the assumption, not wifely pleasure. He drew the attention by adding his voice to DG's. "Congratulations, Sir." Wyatt knew undercover work was only as good as the cover, and theirs was precarious at best; they'd be lucky not to end in a verbal brawl that gave their relationship away. However, as they already had started the deception, Wyatt saw a huge advantage to being in the tower: he could get information to the others. His pretense at gullibility and under-intelligence could make him seem non-threatening to the invaders as well, adding to their willingness to discuss important things around Wyatt. He looked towards the door; the hall had fallen quiet. "Sir? I should check the level. I've got patrol every hour."

Randu nodded in apparent affability. "Naturally. I don't think the medicos are around anymore, though. They all ran away, I'm sure." His opinion of medical staff seemed rather low.

Frowning, Wyatt straightened and saluted Randu, fighting his dislike. He tugged DG gently by the hand, leading her into the hall and making a show of looking around. He could hear Randu behind them as Wyatt led DG towards the only closed door he saw . . . and the one from which DG had originally emerged. The threesome looked in every open door they passed, seeing nobody.

All the while, Wyatt's mind raced over possibilities for information gathering as well as ways to try to move Glitch, and subsequently DG, out to a safer location.

xxx

_'Bastard!'_ DG thought, fighting to keep her opinions unspoken and her anger in check. The last few minutes had been harder than climbing the tower balcony during the eclipse. Controlling her emotions became more difficult with each beat of Randu's boots on the dark stone floor.

The invader had brought bad news with his verification of Leona's coup and the general's romance with the newest queen. And acting so friendly . . . DG didn't need to be Raw to see right through that act. She just hoped the Long Coat wouldn't see past her _'good little O.Z. wife'_ act.

A slight shaking of her left hand drew her attention, and DG flushed, easing her tight grip on Wyatt's hand; he'd never dropped their contact since meeting Randu. Wyatt didn't turn, checking each open door they passed on his supposed patrol, but a brief squeeze back on her hand let her know he felt as tense, as disturbed, as she did by the turn of events.

Noting the next door led to Glitch's recovery room, where the royal adviser lay defenseless, injured, and asleep, DG took a deep breath. "Why did the medicos run away?" She had to remember to use her soft 'Az' imitation; her normal combative attitude would probably endanger them. She'd only met a handful of women so far in this land but only one had been tough, and Lorraine had backed down at her husband, Ralph's, insistence.

Randu seemed content enough to answer her softly spoken question. "Probably thought they were under attack." His smile almost appeared to be a constant expression. "But that's foolish. Only those who resist the queen's rightful rule are disciplined."

Again, DG felt Wyatt shake her hand to remind her to loosen her grip; she clutched his gun hand and squeezing it wouldn't help if he needed to draw and fire. "So, who'll take care of the patient?"

Wyatt answered this time, his voice matter-of-fact. "They'll have to come back. They're medicos. They have to take care of patients."

A chuckle from Randu had DG biting back a retort. Wyatt's dumb act made her uncomfortable; she knew how brilliant he really was. But, DG knew that Wyatt had a reason for acting complacent and . . . stupid. It was the same reason DG had for being . . . docile: to fool Randu into overlooking them as a potential threat.

The pair walked past Glitch's closed door, but stopped when Randu called out "you missed one, Lieutenant."

So far their very different appearances from their recent wanted poster hadn't seemed to register on Randu's memory. But if a third member of their four-man outlaw band were presented, she doubted this general wouldn't notice the resemblance. DG opened her mouth, mind racing.

"Not allowed in patient rooms," Wyatt intoned, as if reciting well-drilled orders. "Might make them sicker." The Tin Man began to walk again and, much to DG's shock, Randu merely chuckled and followed, not pushing the point.

DG doubted the man was really as genial as he seemed. This entire conversation had to be a series of tests.

They finally reached the end of the corridor. Wyatt turned but didn't let go of her hand yet. He looked down at her with intense crystal-blue eyes. "You can't come to me on duty again, Deeg." He ran the initials together much like Azkadellia used to when they were children. "I have work."

"No," Randu interrupted, his voice amused. "I want you both upstairs. Lead the way, Lieutenant . . . sleeping quarters."

_'Shit!'_ DG thought, wondering if they'd been caught. She couldn't figure out why the sleeping quarters . . . and did Wyatt even know where the bedrooms were? She knew he'd spent the entire night sitting up, waiting for news of Glitch. "The sleeping quarters?" DG questioned out loud, reminding herself to blush shyly. She felt a good new bride would be embarrassed to let some strange man see where she slept.

"Of course," Randu answered but didn't elaborate.

It was DG's turn to shake their entwined hands as Wyatt's grip tightened to a painful vise. Instantly, he relaxed his hold but didn't let go. She gently squeezed once, trying to reassure the tall, blond bodyguard. He didn't respond, turning towards a set of back stairs.

As the trio climbed several levels, DG began to wonder if Wyatt had been wrong. She wondered if the threat of a husband, even one in the flesh, would prevent Randu from raping her. A shudder travelled down her spine and her hand clenched Wyatt's once more. This time, he didn't shake her to release the pressure, simply squeezing back.

The group turned into a hall unfamiliar to DG. She frowned but didn't argue. The walls of black marble lacked the gold veining of the royal level, and the narrow cut-glass windows didn't let in as much light as the wide crystal windows of the higher level. At the third door from the steps, Wyatt stopped and opened it onto a medium-sized room. A full-sized bed, free-standing armoire, and small dressing table with chair sat along two walls. A sturdy wooden chest sat at the foot of the bed and a second wooden door graced the plain wall on their right.

Wyatt turned to Randu. "It's not big, Sir, but you can have our room if you need one."

General Randu laughed and shook his head. "No. I've got a room on a higher level." He turned and looked inside. "You two go on and spend the day together." He smiled down at DG, who wanted to claw his face. Still smiling at her, Randu said "it's obvious you've only just been married. Tomorrow you both," he looked at Wyatt, "begin your work for the queen." He gestured them into the room.

Without question, Wyatt pulled her into the room. "Yes, Sir," he said, confusion lacing his voice.  
Randu shut and locked the door, trapping the pair. The sound of his footsteps, accompanied by chuckling, faded as he left them there, trotting down the steps.

DG let go of Wyatt's hand and glared at him. "Now what? He obviously didn't fall for this stupid . . . "

"He's testing us," her bodyguard responded.

Stopping her tirade, DG looked at him, studying his face, his eyes. Finally, she sighed and paced to the narrow window overlooking the dry moat several floors below. "Testing us," she repeated. "What do we do now, Mister Cain?"

Wyatt opened the armoire and sorted through the feminine clothing and masculine uniforms inside. "You can start by calling me Wyatt. Most wives don't call their husbands 'Mister' in the O.Z."

Whirling, DG noticed the clothes, surprised. "How did you know to choose this room?" She walked over, amazed that the uniforms appeared to be Wyatt's size. With O.Z. fashion, the feminine clothing would be adjustable if she continued to use a shaper.

Wyatt pulled out his own clothes, duster, and fedora, wrapping the duster around the entire bundle. He looked down at DG. "I came up to wake Jeb and Dylan and was told to use the uniforms in here until they could make me some. Apparently the guard and his wife are up north visiting relatives. They won't return during this coup." Sighing, he turned back to the armoire and shoved his own clothing to a far, dark corner of the free-standing closet. "Now we need a plan for when he comes back." He looked up and nodded once. "You're doing good."

DG sighed and walked to the bed to sink onto the thick counterpane. "I'm finding I don't like undercover work . . . Wyatt." She looked up at him and frowned, noticing for the first time just how tired he looked; there was dark bruising under his normally brilliant eyes. "Mister . . . Wyatt, you didn't sleep last night," she accused.

Turning from the armoire, he nodded. "Two nights, actually. We wanted to get the information to you before something happened." Running a hand through his short light-blond hair, the Tin Man shrugged slightly. "We barely made it."

She patted the bed. "Come on, Cain . . . Wyatt. I'll wake you when he comes back." He began to protest but she cut him off. "Let me watch over you now, Wyatt. It's my turn."

A heartbeat passed then another. Finally, Wyatt nodded and stepped forward. He began unbuckling the gunbelt and paused, crystal-blue eyes widening in sudden realization. "He left me the revolver."

DG's own vivid blue eyes dropped to his narrow waist then raised to his face. "That's a good sign."

"Yes, it is." He smiled slightly then masked his emotions once more. Slipping the belt off, he placed it carefully in DG's hands before sinking, fully uniformed, onto the bed.

She carefully wrapped the belt around her own waist, surprised by the unfamiliar heaviness of the gun on her right hip. Turning, she watched as Wyatt quickly dropped off to a sleep he'd denied himself too long. Silently, DG began to mentally sort through the information they had so far. They needed a way out . . . and a way to save Glitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	11. Through the Recesses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: DG and Wyatt do not manage to escape. They claim to be married to protect DG. Randu locks them up.

His grip on her wrist felt like warm steel. Azkadellia tried to keep up, sliding dangerously on the polished marble floors in her slippers, her hair spilling from the loose upsweep to tangle about her hips and arms. After her third near mishap, the princess called out, breathlessly, "Stop . . . for a moment . . ."

The blond guard stopped, tilted his head to listen, then turned to her. "Your Highness?"

She shook her head and kicked her slippers off into the middle of the hall. Gathering the long material of her robe in her free hand, she gave him a nod. "Okay . . . but I need your name."

"Dylan . . ." he sighed softly and continued, "I'm called Dylan." He turned and began guiding her down the long marble and gold hall, only slightly adjusting the vise-like grip he maintained on her wrist.

Unprotesting, Az let him lead her through the familiar corridors. Ignoring the increasing pain radiating up her arm, knowing there would be time to see to it later, the woman suddenly tugged her arm . . . hard. "No, this way." She pulled towards a different set of stairs.

He changed direction without question, youthful face set in grim lines, and the pair ran on.

Long minutes passed and they exited a steep stairway and turned a dark corner into the not-long disused dungeons. Dylan looked around, hesitating, but Az merely tugged again, wincing at the pain through her wrist.

"The sewers," she gasped at his unspoken confusion. "We can get out through there." When he turned surprised grey eyes on her, she clarified, "It's how DG got out the first time, I believe."

"Not like _that_ ," Dylan used his free hand to gesture at her bare feet. "What else is down here?"

She frowned and looked around. "The dungeons . . . torture room . . . maintenance?" She turned worried hazel eyes to the man.

Finally, he released her wrist and she involuntarily cried out at the rush of blood and pain. Az bent her arm up, close to her mid-abdomen, her other hand shielding the injured limb.

Shock crossed his steel-colored eyes. "Damn! I hurt you, Your Highness!" Regret and worry filled his voice.

She lifted her uninjured hand. "There will be some maintenance uniforms in a closet in the equipment room. I image something will fit me." Az turned, covering her wrist once more and quickly striding over the dirty concrete floor towards the maintenance area at the far end of the dungeon. She didn't look down, refusing to verify just what she walked through. "I don't know if there are any boots, though," she added softly. The princess denied herself the luxury of acknowledging the pain; Az knew that acceptance would cripple her and prevent her from helping in this vital mission.

Seeming to listen a moment longer, Dylan pressed his lips tight and followed her, overtaking her with his longer stride and reaching the equipment room with its uniform closet and secondary storage room. He opened the closet and began rooting through the various old, worn, semi-clean outfits and various scuffed, dirty pairs of boots.

Coming to a stop next to him, Az watched the man in his search. She said "I don't know if the boots will fit me, actually."

"Then we'll wrap your feet and you can wear mine." The athletic blond straightened and turned, offering her a pile of clothing. His grey eyes scanned the room. "Over there," he gestured with one hand to the storage room, "hurry. They won't be above checking the dungeons."

Without a word, she took the clothes and slipped into the dirty, compact space. Pausing a moment, Az took a deep breath and choked on the foul miasma of humanity imprisoned and abused. A month had not been long enough to clear annuals of misery. She let the butter-yellow silk robe slip from her body and pool at her feet. Ignoring the intense throbbing and shooting stabs of fire in her wrist, she dressed clumsily in the coarse cotton shirt, overalls, and jacket of dusky grey.

She turned and frowned at the sight of her companion shoving a foot into a workman's boot, his own sleek leather boots sitting discarded near a stack of dull shirts. "I can wear the work boots," Az said, dignified and quiet, as she stepped up next to him.

He shook his head once. "This is the best here and even they have holes. We'll wrap your feet and you can have mine. They'll be more comfortable and hopefully won't rub your feet raw, Your Highness."

Az sighed. Strengthening her voice, she said, "I don't need to be coddled, Dylan. I . . ."

Looking up, surprise lit his grey eyes, his platinum hair a more dull yellow in the subdued lighting of the dungeon level. "Coddled? During an escape?" He shook his head and picked up a knife from beside him.

Her heart gave a painful beat and her hazel eyes widened, but she didn't flinch. Relief flooded her when he turned to grab an old shirt and start shredding it. "Give me your robe, Your Highness, that'll make a strong binding and sling."

"Az," she softly corrected and his head shot up, eyes showing confusion. "I'm called Az," she clarified. Turning, the twenty-seven annual old brunette retrieved her discarded robe, pushing her long clinging hair from her face. When she returned, Az sank onto a grimy bench and pulled the belt from her robe then placed both near the hurriedly working man. She awkwardly started to braid her long mass of dark hair, biting back her whimpers of pain at the twisting action ripping pain through her wrist.

Dylan looked up and shook his head. He put a hand over hers, stilling her attempts, and said, gruffly, "turn." She presented her back to him and he quickly plaited her hair then tied it with a strip of the cloth. As quickly, apparently familiar with working on a lady's hair, he wrapped the plait around itself and tucked it into a thick bun. He used a second cloth strip to secure the bun. "Turn around again," he said and grabbed her right foot, wrapping several thick cloth strips around it then wrapped the left foot.

Her pain overshadowed thoughts of trying to talk to her quiet companion, so Az merely obeyed his terse orders. As he slipped her feet into the knee-high boots, she tried to concentrate on picking out the platinum highlights from the darker light-blond tresses; she could see that the unusual coloring was natural, not designed. In surprise, Az looked down at her feet, distracted by the feel that the leather seemed to mould to her padded legs. "That's good leather," she murmured.

Finally, he straightened and reached for Az's wrist. "Let me," he said firmly, and she obeyed, uncurling the injured limb from it's protective place by her abdomen. Dylan's hands were gentle yet sure as he carefully probed her swelling wrist, and she tried to keep still at the searing pain.

"Sprain . . . I hope," he murmured then wrapped strips of thick, soft cotton around it, the old work-shirts proving a fairly good substitute for a real splint. Looking up from the completed, and still relatively painful, splint, Dylan studied Az's tear-washed hazel eyes. "Brave . . ." he murmured then nodded. Turning the knife around, holding the blade carefully, Dylan presented the weapon to Az. "Here, take this."

She didn't hesitate, thankful that she would now have a weapon. Az took the hilt and carefully withdrew the knife from his fingers. "Thank you," she said. Az wrapped a strip of cotton around the blade and tucked it in the over large hip pocket on the left side of her overalls. She hoped she wouldn't need to use it; her dominant right hand had been the one injured.

In exchange for the weapon, Dylan took the robe, balling it up and slipping it into his shirt, buttoning his jacket to hold the silk in place. "I'll see you to a doctor as soon as we're safe." Offering her a hand up, Dylan turned, releasing her hand immediately. He paused, tilting his head towards her behind him, and said "I'm sorry I hurt you . . . Az." Quickly, he led her from the equipment room.

Sounds of marching feet could be heard from the stairwell they'd traversed.

Az grabbed Dylan's wrist this time. "This way," she breathed, gesturing with her chin.

Silently, the pair hurried into the dark, foul-smelling tunnel. A rusty, pitted catwalk precariously hugged one wall, but no railing prevented anyone walking on it falling into the waist-high sludge below. They had to slow down in order to carefully pick their way across that rickety catwalk. Below them slowly swirled a mixture of human waste, toxic chemicals, and household garbage. A long, disgusting, and difficult half hour passed while the pair tried not to slip from the narrow maintenance bridge. Decaying rodents, scurrying roaches, and slippery pools of rancid filth littered the way. More than once, Az had to catch herself, using both hands against the clammy, dripping walls, the pain making her bite her lip to prevent crying out. Once or twice, Dylan caught her wrist to stop her fall, murmuring an apology for the added injury.

Neither dared stop when they came out once again into fresh air, despite the longing to take great lungfuls and shed their encrusted garments. Rather, they trudged on over scrub land and into sparse undergrowth up a winding broken cut, to end in an old forest on the cliffside overlooking the tunnels. As the pair approached a small clearing of crude huts and ragged lean-tos Dylan called a halt.

"Here . . . Az," he gasped, winded, a hand to his chest. His skin had paled to near translucent, color high on his cheeks and eyes wide and filled with pain. A sheen of sweat covered him, dampening his uniform and plastering his hair to his head.

Surprised, Az gripped his arm, feeling a tremble course through the man. She tried to push him to a seat in the leaf fodder. "Dylan!" He pulled his hand from her grip, shuddered and released his chest, but still panted. Suspicious, Az asked softly, "are you ill, Dylan?"

He paused then nodded. "Yes," he seemed to be collecting his breath at last. "I have a very rare cancer, Az," he said. Turning steel-colored eyes on her, he added, "and there's no known cure." He looked towards the small grouping of rugged homes. "Don't tell Jeb. I, too, don't need to be coddled."

With that, Dylan raised a shaking hand and called out, "Hello, the town! We bring news."

Two dozen men and five women poured into the central clearing, ending the conversation before it had begun. A cold fire pit sat next to a scarred metal work table. Some horses, hobbled to prevent wandering, grazed on hay that had been provided; no grass graced the forest floor. The group, dressed in the kilts of the eastern resistance fighters, seemed surprised when they spotted Princess Azkadellia in their midst. Even in her dirt and old rags, no one could mistaken the elder daughter of the House of Gale.

Az expected these people to hurl insults or even rocks at her . . . to cower from the _Bloody Sorceress_ . . . to rain anger upon her head. They did none of those things. They merely watched her with emotionless faces, giving nothing away. Finally, one man stepped forward. "What news bring you, Captain?"

All eyes turned expectantly to Dylan, including Az's. He took a slow breath and said "the tower is under attack by Long Coats, but I'm not sure who's directing them. I managed to get the princess out, and others are helping as well. Commander Cain will need the resistance to gather in the north, near the old Shiz Academy."

Immediate clamor arose as the group turned to discuss options and gather equipment, though none asked questions about this new development. They were a well disciplined group, it seemed. One middle-aged man, however, turned to the filthy pair. "You'll be wanting to clean up then?" He asked, rhetorically. "Right. Over here, Your Highness, and," he gently took her by the good elbow, smiling for the first time, "welcome home."

She blinked, tears coming suddenly to her eyes. Drawing in a sob she couldn't fight, Az asked "Do I know you, Sir?"

He laughed and carefully guided her into the small hut. "Was one of the pastry chefs, Your Highness. Always hoped we'd figure out what magical curse you were under . . . you were too gentle for it to be anything _but_ magic, after all." He bowed and backed out of the one-room cabin, shutting the door before she could respond, calling "there's water and clothes, Captain."

Az whirled around, hazel eyes widening when she noted the man next to her unbuttoning his jacket. "Wait . . ." she shook her head and glanced towards the door. "I . . . uh . . . can take care of myself . . ."

Dylan rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to dishonor you, Az. I'm going to play lady's maid . . ." He dropped the filthy jacket to the floor and reached for her. She backed up and he advanced, trapping her against a rough wall in the tiny hut. "You can't do much with that wrist I probably broke." As she rolled wild eyes towards him, fear rising, he added softly, "I'm too sick for ravishment, Az. Trust me . . . please?" He let up his hold and backed away a step.

She pushed back into the rough wooden wall, gulping air, reminding herself she wasn't with a battalion of plotting Long Coats, only the threat of the witch and a single devoted bodyguard for protection. _’No . . .’_ she thought desperately, _’now I have no loyal bodyguard.’_ Pushing the horrifying thought away, Az raised a shaking hand and whispered, "only if you prove yourself."

"The knife isn't enough?" He asked, looking mildly surprised.

Equally taken aback, she looked from her waist to his face; she had forgotten he had armed her. Az shook her head slowly. "I need to know how you knew about the peace cooperation treaty . . . and the passcodes." she insisted.

With a sigh and a nod, Dylan stepped back completely. "All right, but it's going to sound worse than it is."

"I don't care how bad it sounds," she countered and watched as he pulled over a hip tub to fill with room-temperature water. "It can hardly beat mine . . . for fifteen annuals, I've been systematically torturing and killing hundreds of people across the O.Z."

Dylan looked up. "No you haven't." His tone was simple, honest.

At her surprised look, he added, "you were forced to help, and you had to watch, but it was the witch in ultimate power. You were just twelve when she took control . . . a child." Dylan finished filling the tub and slid out of his boots, revealing the dirty wet socks he wore, proof the boots had been damaged. He removed the socks and tossed them onto his jacket then washed his hands in a water basin nearby. Dylan made no move to touch his other clothing. Instead, he once more turned to her. "But it's _my_ crimes you want to hear."

Az blinked. "An odd word choice, Dylan," she said softly. Carefully, the princess sank onto a plain wooden chair and let Dylan remove his now disgusting boots from her feet. They were salvageable, but would never shine as they had before their escape, even with a proper cleaning.

"When I was an infant, I became extremely ill. My parents died of this illness within the first year, and my doctor was afraid I'd died too." He slid the second boot to the floor and stood up, helping her to rise. His fingers felt impersonal as he stripped her, ignoring her flushed embarrassment. "Finally, my doctor turned to the only person he knew who had magic enough to probably heal me." Looking Az in the eyes, leaving her in her shift and drawers, he said, "Leona Gale."

"You . . ." Az gasped but clamped her mouth shut at a shake of his head.

"She could do nothing," he stated then helped her into the tub, underclothes and all. "She told my doctor to leave me with her and she'd try to figure it out. So, he left me, and for practically my entire life, I lived with your cousin as she tried spells, rituals, and medicines to no end."

As he spoke, the resistance fighter helped the princess to wash, but never tried to remove her personal clothes. Finally, when nearly finished, he turned his back. "Take off the shift and things. Finish. I'll get towels and clothes." He walked away to a free-standing cabinet of linens.

Blushing furiously by then, Az quickly stripped and completed her bath, shivering as she wrapped her arms around herself, her injured wrist in its tight wet bindings closest to her abdomen. "So, Dylan, are you helping Leona take over?" she asked. When he shot to a stiff posture, back still to her, she called, "I'm not an idiot. I didn't hear everything, but I know my parents went to check on her. I've long suspected the people would turn to her if the witch ever left."

Dylan turned and quickly held up a large towel for her to step into. He wrapped it around her shivering wet body then draped another over her dripping hair, long removed from the braided bun she'd worn. Finally, he reached for a medicine box to pull out some stiffened bandaging and a pair of curved wooden slats for her wrist.

"I haven't seen her in just over a year," he said, ignoring her small whimper of pain as he worked, not giving her a chance to dry off completely before removing the disgusting splint, though he gently washed and dried her swollen, quickly bruising limb.

Az bit back a pained scream, her head suddenly spinning, nausea rising. Her free hand flew to cover her mouth as she fought to remain conscious. Dylan sat her on the chair and reached into the medicine box. He retrieved a tablet and forced it under her tongue, watching her. The medicine dissolved quickly and her pain receded.

Finally, Dylan nodded and began to work on her wrist once more, taking up where he'd left off in his story. "She asked me to find the Emerald of the Eclipse so she could use it to free you. You found it first. But during the siege, I got hurt pretty badly and couldn't be moved. By the time I was healed, I found out about the threats and rumors and took them to Jeb." He met her eyes."Including the one about Leona . . ." he finished her wrist and sighed, stepping back, steel eyes sad looking. "And, yes, Leona was the one who told me the treaty protocol secrets. I'd never mentioned them until this morning's meeting." Dylan turned and rooted through their host's wardrobe for clothing. "I think that's broken after all. I'll make you a sling once you've dressed."

Carefully, thankful for the slight ease that came with the tight new bandaging, Az dried herself clumsily, wrapping the towel more securely around her shapely frame. She began drying her hair, watching the young man as she pondered all he'd told her.

Turning, he brought over a dark grey skirt and shaper with stockings, a red blouse, and plain drawers. He did not provide a chest binder. Looking away from Az, the resistance fighter blushed lightly as he offered the drawers and shaper.

She smiled in genuine amusement. "You don't know women's clothing, do you, Dylan?"

At a shake of his head, she took a steadying breath then rose and clutched her towel. She went to dig out a chest binder from the wardrobe, wet hair clinging to her body and spilling over her shoulders as she bent forward. "How old are you? You look perhaps Jeb's age? Around eighteen?"

He laughed, sounding more nervous than amused, and soon the sounds of hurried bathing followed. "Twenty-six. I look younger because of Leona's cure attempts."

"Oh," Az said, her turn to be surprised. He was only one annual younger than she was. Keeping her back to him, Az carefully put the undergarments on then re-wrapped the towel around herself, holding her aching wrist close. She would need his help for the rest of the outfit; the medicine he'd given her hadn't been strong enough to block all pain. She waited for the sounds of washing to stop, counted twenty-five, then slowly turned.

Dylan, a towel wrapped around narrow hips, stepped past her to the wardrobe.

She gasped and he turned confused eyes on her. "Az?"

Lifting a shaking hand, Az traced one finger down a series of geometric patterns scarred into his back, flanks, and chest. They dipped below the waistline covered by his towel. "My stars! What happened here, Dylan? Don't tell me this was one of Cousin Leona's cures? It's . . . barbaric!" Her fingers trembled over the raised, off-colored flesh.

He looked down as she traced a triangular scar. "Uh . . . no . . ." Dylan trapped her hand in his and shook his head. "No. They're . . ." he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They're clan tattoos, Az. Done when I made my first kill . . . when I came of age . . . and at other significant times."

"Clan tat . . ." Az's voice dropped off as her worried brown eyes widened and shot up to meet serious grey ones. "You're from the Nature Clan!"

Sighing, Dylan nodded, dropping her hand. "Of course I am, Az. Didn't I say my doctor took me to your cousin? Well, she lives in the Thousand Year Grasslands . . . Nature Clan territory." The man slipped a plain tunic on, covering his scarred, muscular torso. "That's not going to be a problem is it?"

Suddenly embarrassed at her behavior, Az flushed and stepped back, putting her hand over her mid-abdomen. "No . . . no, it's not . . . Dylan." She turned and began dressing, ruthlessly ignoring her pain, intent on getting this quest begun so it could end all the sooner . . . and she could get out of the disconcerting presence of this confusing man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	12. Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Az and Dylan escape through the sewers. Az is injured and finds out Dylan is sick.

Exhaustion laced his body, screaming though warrior's muscles pushed to the limit. Hunger gnawed at his guts, a dull ache he'd ignored for hours. She would help him he knew . . . if he could make it. She wouldn't like it, but she always gave in . . . always helped.

Rustling noises drove him behind a pair of close growing trees. His form-fitting black trousers and undershirt made him harder to discern, though his dark blond hair could give him away at any time. When the men in the rag-tag resistance outfits passed by, Zero began his trek once more. It had been annuals since he'd been on a stealth mission; he wondered briefly if he still had what it took. Had he become too used to the power of the witch's wrath and the royal name? The former leader of the royal guard refused to believe he'd gone soft.

Noting the lone white tree in the overwhelming mass of green, Zero smiled grimly, relieved. Soon he'd have rest, food, and medical attention. Of course, he'd have to be careful; he was in no condition to tangle with her kid . . . or her newly returned husband. Something played at Zero's exhausted memory . . . hadn't the boy blamed Zero for his mother's death?

A sudden frown settled on Zero's lean face and his steel-grey eyes narrowed. Impatiently he flipped his head to clear a wayward lock of hair from his eyes. He quietly approached, avoiding the dry underbrush and leaf fodder as much as possible, ignoring the scratches appearing on his fine leather knee-boots. Carefully rounding the side of the cottage, Zero stopped dead in his tracks, grey eyes widening in shock. Denial and fear raced through him, intertwined with a deep ache.

"No!" he felt his heart constrict and ran forward, ignoring any noise he made, indiscriminate in his horror. Dropping to his knees by the simple wooden grave marker, he read the dreaded words carved into the plank: _Adora Cain_. The kid really had been talking about his mother! Rage tore at him, and Zero thrust to his feet, ignoring the tearing pain of reopening wounds across his back.

 _’Who disobeyed my direct orders?’_ he wondered. _’I expressly forbid anyone from interfering with the Cains. Any arrests were to be made by_ me _. . . punishments were mine to order!’_ In the last six months, he'd been too busy searching for that emerald to keep track of all the men. Zero whirled around, blindly reviewing the men formerly under his command, the ones who might recall Cain's name as being on the list of resistance fighters. _’Which one do I kill?’_ he thought. _’Which one is my enemy?’_

Something gleamed dully from the mud on Adora's grave. Dropping down once more, Zero reached out and pulled up the bit of tin: a Central City police badge. "Shit!"

It had been one thing to taunt Wyatt Cain about the possible demise of his family, but Zero had never intended it to become a reality. They had been good friends once . . . a long time ago in a more innocent time . . . a time when both Wyatt and Zero had trained together for a bright future.

_His head spun like a freakin' carousel. Damn, Wyatt sure didn't know how to hold a punch. It felt like he'd been run over by a skree. And he was sure he tasted blood, damn it! He'd make Wyatt pay for that. Pulling back his clenched fist, Zero tightened his muscles, preparing to put his full weight behind the punch._

_"Okay, boys, enough. All this testosterone is making my head swim." Adora's voice sounded firm, though laughter played just below the surface._

_Zero let his fist fly but adjusted the aim so he missed Wyatt completely. Steel gray eyes met crystal blue ones, and Zero couldn't help but be impressed to see no fear in Wyatt. It wouldn't have been difficult to feel the power behind Zero's diverted punch, yet the other teen seemed to be steady and calm. How the hell did he do that?_

_Adora whisked into the room, long skirts swishing about her ankles. Sixteen, with blonde hair flowing to her waist and dancing blue eyes, she was the prettiest girl in the plains. She carried a tray with soup bowls and thick mugs in her work-worn hands. Unfortunately, her wide smile dropped immediately when she looked at the two youths._

_"Wyatt Cain, what do you think you're about?" Her voice had gone icy with anger._

_The calm front turned sheepish and Wyatt hung his head, much to Zero's surprised amusement. "We were only sparring, Adora."_

_She plunked the tray onto a worn table, ignoring the liquid slopping over the mugs and bowls. "Sparring doesn't mean_ 'take Zero's head off,' _Wyatt!" She moved to Zero and grabbed his sore chin in one firm hand._

_He winced; he couldn't help it. Damn, but wasn't Adora strong? Her grip didn't lessen and he fought to keep the pain from his expression. She always said his eyes gave away his heart._

_"Open your mouth, Zero. I want to see the damage my friend did." She tilted his head roughly to the side, trying for better light from the open doorway it would seem._

_Wyatt's voice came out calm and steady. "He's going into in the army, Adora. He's got to learn to . . ."_

_"I'll thank you not to make war in my parlor, Wyatt Cain." She shot a glare at the muscular blacksmith's apprentice then turned back to Zero. "I said open your mouth, Zero Zihs!" She squeezed his chin._

_Pain shot through Zero's bruised jaw and he obeyed, knowing that Adora was mad at both of them, not just Wyatt. All the screaming in the world wouldn't have bothered Zero, and she knew it; that was why she used physical force to enforce her commands. Zero had been trained well to listen to brute force over mere words._

_After more than a minute, the girl finally withdrew her hand and turned her glare from one sixteen annual old boy to the other. Most girls her age were gentle, flirtatious, using tricks and smiles to get a boy's attention, aiming at a marriage. But not Adora. She had become as tough as any boy, strong from annuals of farm labor and trained to fight by her Tin Man uncle. She seemed to have an innate understanding of those around her and used it to her advantage. All the boys in the local villages wanted to claim Adora Rowen, but she only seemed interested in her work and her two best friends: Wyatt and Zero._

_"Let me see your hands, Zero," Adora demanded. "If you've damaged them, your mother will skin you."_

_The sudden pain snapped Zero into sharply focused fear, and he closed his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut as his head swam again, his stomach heaving in accord with the carousel in his head: up and down, up and down, like freakin' wooden horses. "I'm gonna puke." He snatched the injured appendage back then pushed roughly past Adora, ignoring her worried gasp, and headed out to the privy. Behind him he could hear Adora whirling on Wyatt with another harangue about killing the only friends a body has in the name of sport._

_He didn't hear Wyatt defending himself, but, really, he could care less. Zero was too busy vomiting to care about anything else._

"Shit!" Zero dropped the badge back onto the grave. If Wyatt already knew of his wife's death, why had he made his kid leave Zero alive? Why had he released Zero from the iron suit a few weeks ago? Zero couldn't be sure . . . the fever he'd developed after intense torture, and being shoved in the iron suit without the appropriate life-sustaining magic, had left him weak and confused . . . and without the right magic, Zero had suffered re-injury of his wounds daily, causing delusions and pain. Memories blurred with dreams and images of intense heat with overwhelming darkness. Nothing was certain.

He wondered if Wyatt had discovered the death after the downfall of the witch. That made much more sense. Once the former Tin Man had discovered his wife's death, he certainly wouldn't rest without avenging her. Zero knew the former Tin Man probably wouldn't believe that the royal army commander had protected the woman, and her child, for eight annuals. Zero's one claim to decency in his entire miserable life and it would be his downfall now.

Zero knew he'd hunt down Adora's killer himself . . . and he would subject the man to every torture devisable. He would relish the pain he could inflict on the traitor. _No one_ disobeyed his orders!

With a string of not-so-soft curses pouring from his bruised, cut lips, Zero let himself into the cabin. He knew the Cain men couldn't be there or they'd have heard him long before and responded. Looking around, the army commander noted the thin layer of dust . . . not quite enough to denote abandonment. By the looks of things, the Cains had only been gone a week or so.

Quickly, Zero raided the pantry, grabbing a leather carry sack with sturdy straps and filling it with dried meats and vegetables. He chewed on a strip of jerky as he moved into the bedroom near the front and slid a medical bundle into the sack. Perusing the clothing, knowing Wyatt's would be too large . . . the kid had a smaller, if athletic, frame . . . Zero grabbed a jacket from the cupboard. Holding the denim material to his torso, he grimaced. Athletic or not, the boy had some filling out to do. Zero tossed the jacket onto a nearby chair and headed into the other bedroom.

A few minutes later, Zero made his way from the Cain house, wearing a thick leather jacket too new to have been used yet and carrying his full supply pack. He turned towards the north and the Crack in the O.Z. He had to avenge Adora, in addition to his primary duty: find Azkadellia and protect her, if he wasn't too late. With a shake of his head, feeling his stomach drop at the thought, Zero pushed the negative possibility from his mind. He refused to give up without proof. If there was even a slim chance the princess had survived the witch's defeat, Zero would keep looking. He would not lose Azkadellia as he had Adora.

Zero made his way, close to the road but in the tree line, towards the nearly impassable gorge, teeth clenched and heart determined.

xxx

Soft fur tickled his neck as Jeb carried the light-weight dog in his arms. Heading steadily west, the leader of the resistance kept as low among the cracked boulders as he could, though he knew the sun glinting off the gold trim on his brown uniform, in addition to his dark blond hair, made him a target for any Long Coat looking to bag a royal guard. Glancing behind them, Jeb practically jumped when the dog shoved a cold wet nose to his throat and gave a soft "woof".

Jeb looked up then threw himself backwards, the dog leaping from his arms and onto one of the Long Coat duo that had just stepped in front of them. Jeb ducked as the other threw a punch. The young leader drew his sword and slashed at the man's legs. Shock registered on the enemy's face, and the man threw himself to the side, cursing as the sword made contact. Jeb slammed the thick hilt onto the man's injured leg and the enemy screamed. He scrambled down the hill towards the tower, apparently unarmed or too frightened to recall if he was carrying a weapon. Jeb turned to aid the dog.

The second man yelped as the dog repeatedly bit him on the arm, digging with his sharp claws. As Jeb watched his companion in amazement, the little dog snapped his teeth in the Long Coat's face. This enemy, too, fled the scene, though his eyes had fallen on Jeb's unsheathed sword just before he seemed to make the decision.

Wagging his tail enthusiastically, the dog yipped at Jeb, sounding quite pleased.

"Right," the man replied. "Pay attention. Got it." He frowned and again scooped up the dog then made his way into the rolling, grassy western hills. He didn't stop moving until the suns beat down at their zenith.

Sinking to the ground between two springy-turfed hillocks of wild clover, Jeb finally placed the dog on the ground. With a grunt, panting a bit after the intense exercise, the man rested his forearms on his knees and let his head droop.

Silently, his canine companion sat at his feet and watched him, ears perked in an attitude of careful listening.

Jeb looked up at last and studied the small grey and brown dog. He asked "and just who do you belong to?" He paused a long moment as he and the dog stared mutely at one another. Finally Jeb broke the silence.

"You came from the tower so you probably live with a staff member." When the dog shook his head with an odd sneeze, Jeb's memory clicked. He had seen this dog before. "Wait! You were with Father when he tried to rescue Princess Dorothy. I know you're not his or you'd have been with us this past month. Are you Princess Dorothy's?"

With a happy sounding yip, the furry mongrel jumped backwards, a few feet away from the human youth. The dog seemed to freeze, a look of what might be concentration in his intelligent brown eyes. He stayed in that pose for several heartbeats, shaking, before letting out a loud yelp and shuddering into a massive convulsion. Suddenly the little animal collapsed in a twitching heap, eyes rolled back in his head and tongue hanging out, limbs stiff and jerking.

Jeb leapt forward, scooped up a sturdy stick, and shoved it roughly into the dog's mouth. "Damn! Don't you die on me, mutt! The Princess will probably never forgive me if her dog dies." His hands ran over the soft tangle of fur and the heaving, quaking sides of the suddenly helpless animal. Finding the inch thick metal collar, Jeb tried to release it. He knew it would interfere if the dog started choking. The metal felt smooth and heavy with three solid buttons at the back. Confused Jeb withdrew his hand, unsure what the buttons did but feeling they might possibly relay medicine to alleviate the seizures; he'd heard that the royal advisor had developed something of the sort for animals some annuals ago.

Several very long, heart-racing minutes passed before the dog's seizure stopped and the small figure lay quietly panting. Once more Jeb began to check on the animal, noting the lethargy of the little dog. Pain seemed to radiate from his intelligent brown eyes and he panted slowly, drooling to excess, as if fighting nausea. Jeb stroked the weakened animal's soft muzzle, easing the stick from between now slack jaws. It had been bitten deep during the seizure.

"It'll be okay, Boy. I'll keep you safe until I can get you back home." He sighed. "Right now we have to catch up to the queen, though." How much would this dog slow him down? Jeb stroked again, steel blue eyes scanning his tired companion.

After ten minutes, the dog still seemed unresponsive so Jeb took off his uniform jacket and gently wrapped the dog in it. Carefully, the young man rose, cradling his bundle. He began to walk once more, heading southwest in order to intercept the old brick route leading between Central City and the Thousand Years Grassland. Princess's dog or not, his mission to contact Queen Lavender trumped any seizure attack.

Feeling the animal must be terrified in his after-seizure collapse, the normally very quiet man felt a need to speak to the poor canine. "Well, my name is Jeb Cain and I'm now one of the royal guards," he said softly. A small rustling from his bundle drew steel-blue eyes downward. Jeb allowed himself a small, tight smile. The dog certainly had heard him and seemed to be reacting. Slipping a hand over so he could pet the soft fur with a pair of fingers, he said "that's a start."

He thought for a moment then added, "I need to call you something, but you aren't wearing a nametag. If I choose a name for you, I hope you'll answer to it." His mother had taught him a trick used for young animals to get a response to a new name; the youth hoped it would work on this noticeably older canine. He stroked the fur and gently said "I'll call you Baxter . . . I had a cat once called Baxter." He stroked again when he said the name. Leaning close in an awkward hunch as he walked, he said "Baxter" and stroked again.

The little dog gave a weak bark and rustled in the coat. Jeb knew that he'd recover soon as he was responding more and more. Reiterating the name with the reward of soothing petting, Jeb said, "good boy, Baxter. Good dog."

As time progressed, the newly dubbed Baxter seemed to perk up, and he lifted his head to give a soft bark. Jeb looked down noticing that the brown eyes seemed brighter, the dog's movements seemed steadier. Once again, Jeb stroked his companion's soft fur. "Feeling better, Baxter?"

The look in the dog's eyes could be construed as exasperated amusement . . . by some. In answer to the human's question, Baxter wriggled out of the jacket and put a paw on Jeb's chest, yipping up at him. Jeb stopped walking and Baxter jumped down, disappearing into the thick underbrush of the hill bushes and trees.

"Hey!" The resistance fighter shook his head, pushing a lock of dark blond hair from his blue-grey eyes. "I can pick a different name!" He called desperately, trodding after the dog.

"Hello." The voice stopped the young man and he turned to face back towards the rough path. There stood a tall, thin woman. Her greying brown hair had been pulled into a tidy bun atop her head. She wore traditional clothing, complete with overskirt and jacket over the more familiar camisole, blouse, and ankle-length skirt. Her entire outfit was made of sturdy dark brown cotton; her shoes were of well-kept dark brown leather. She smiled, though her hazel eyes seemed more watchful than welcoming.

Jeb stepped out of the shadows onto the trail and shock crossed her features. Hurriedly the young man slipped into his uniform jacket, very aware of the image he presented. Quickly accessing his fellow traveler, Jeb felt he'd never met the woman before. "Hello, ma'am," he replied.

"My Heavens," she whispered in awe, reaching out to touch the younger man's cheek. "I had heard the magic . . . but you haven't changed a day . . ." she seemed distracted.

Startled by the unsolicited contact, Jeb pulled away, blue-grey eyes narrowing. "May I help you, ma'am?" He kept his voice impersonal.

Suddenly the woman stiffened and frowned fiercely. Wrapping her hands in her skirt in a protective gesture, she said, "No. I mistook you for someone else. You look very much alike."

A low growl came from the underbrush behind Jeb and he glanced back. The brown and grey form of his canine companion stood there, stiff-legged, head lowered, teeth bared, and eyes steady on the stranger.

"Baxter?" Jeb questioned.

The woman didn't even bother to glance at the animal, ignoring his warning growls. "Mind if I journey with you for a spell? It's a dangerous road we travel."

Hand falling unconsciously to his sword-hilt, Jeb shook his head. "Baxter doesn't like strangers, ma'am."

She seemed more interested in his weapon than his words. "What a . . . beautiful sword. Is it an heirloom?" Her fingers twitched in her skirts.

As the sword had been made less than twenty annuals ago for the man who'd given it to Jeb, the young resistance leader doubted it could be considered anything as precious as an heirloom. "No, ma'am," he replied but did not loosen his grip on the functional sword. "I received it in war. It was crafted in the royal armory not long ago."

At her frown, Jeb added, "there should be a village up the road a ways, ma'am. You can get escort there. Baxter and I travel alone." He moved to step past her and she grabbed his sleeve in a move that almost took his breath away.

Baxter let out a vicious bark but the woman merely waved a hand as if at a pesky mosquito. She flicked her eyes down at the dog, surprise registering, frown deepening as Baxter let out a series of barks. She turned to look at Jeb, as if trying once more to ignore the dog. "What is your name, officer?" she asked, her voice measured, almost cold.

However, when Baxter made a small lunge at the woman, annoyance flashed across her face and she shot a glare at the steadily more incensed animal. "Perhaps a muzzle," she suggested coldly, her fingers twitching again.

"Never!" Jeb said, putting all his conviction in the word. "Good day, ma'am," he matched her frosty tones. "Come on, Baxter." Without giving her another chance to interfere, Jeb turned towards Baxter and pushed his way into the foliage, ignoring as branches whipped at his torso and face. He began to feel more relaxed, more at home, in the deepening brush and trees. He'd spent too many annuals on the run with first his mother than the resistance; open places made him nervous. Jeb sighed. _’And so do strange women,’_ he thought.

Baxter quieted as soon as Jeb left the path and deserted the odd wanderer. Cocking his head as if listening, the canine paused. After a long moment, he gave a yip and bound up onto a largish boulder. From the rock, he made a rather surprising leap onto Jeb's shoulders, carefully balancing. As Jeb froze in shock, the dog draped himself, lying down across the human's neck and shoulders. He turned his small head and touched his nose to Jeb's cheek then seemed to settle comfortably in his precarious position.

Feeling odd to be draped in fluffy dog, the young man didn't protest. Rather, he started picking their way through the undergrowth. "We'll need to pick up our pace, Baxter. I hope you can balance as well on a moving horse."

As if answering that statement, Baxter yipped and gave his tail a wag.

Jeb took that as agreement and nodded. He hoped the dog was right. After all, the royal couple had half a day head start with a pair of horses, and Jeb needed to catch them before they reached the checkpoint for the Nature Clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	13. Problems after Surgery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Zero finds Jeb's cabin and Adora's grave and recalls training with Wyatt as teens; he is presently injured and confused. Jeb and Toto meet a creepy traveler; Toto is stuck in canine form and not well.

Awareness brought with it pain and dizziness. The sensation of smooth sheets warred with stiff discomfort in his wrist and near suffocating pressure on his head. A steady tone pulsed with every beat of his heart. Disinfectant and medication burned deep in his sinuses, adding to the sense of overwhelming dread; he hated hospitals.

Opening wary brown eyes, Ambrose groaned softly at the confirmation that not only did he lie in a hospital bed, but that he was, in fact, the patient. If nothing else, the heart leads and hanging IV confirmed his assessment. Heavens how he hated IVs. Then again, he hated hospitals in general.

With a sigh, the royal advisor carefully evaluated his situation, trying to recall the accident that had landed him in such a helpless position. Images flew by, too ephemeral to hold on to: flying over a gorge, nightmarish flying creatures, falling into deep rapids . . . the shifting visions made little sense. He tried harder, focusing as he'd been taught in school: running, talking, bruising hands, and a sense of dragging . . . a steel bed and steady counting.

His eyes opened wide, and Ambrose shot to a sitting position, the increase in the beeping of the heart monitor evidence of his body's emotional reactions. _’The medicos tried to take my brain . . .’_ he mentally verified. _’Have they succeeded?’_

Ambrose looked around, frowning. The room appeared to be a typical private hospital ward, complete with a stack of clean towels on a night stand and staff call button, a single chair with a robe nearby. _’Why give a prisoner a call button?’_ he wondered. No mirror-like surface stood in easy reach for his self-assessment, so the advisor had to rely on his other senses to confirm his suspicions.

The IV, the heart monitor, and the call button bespoke an invalid. With a sigh, Ambrose lifted his free right hand to the thick bandaging around his head . . . _’and that,’_ he thought, _’confirms that I am indeed a head case.’_

Rapid images of an unsmiling large blond man and a very young brunette with unusual blue eyes chased through Ambrose's throbbing brain. _’Memories of the queen and her consort in days gone by? But those eyes . . .’_ A sense of lethargic drifting start to seep across the man and he vaguely acknowledged that the IV must be hooked up to a medication delivery system. _’Hmm . . . I invented that,’_ he thought hazily.

Distant sounds came to his detached mind. Running boots, bullets ricocheting, urgent conversations . . . but this time, Ambrose knew them for medicine-addled memories. His ears told him that all was currently quiet . . . no battle in the halls right then. _’How long was I unconscious?’_ Ambrose wondered, trying to pick through a mosaic of confusing images: faces he felt he should know, places he might have been, risks he never dreamed of taking. Nothing made sense.

And his headache reached near blinding accompanied by a throbbing dizziness. _’Funny how I can function so well with half a brain. I suppose that's because regularly I use so much more than others . . . it means I can function quite normally with less than anyone else.’_ A grin crossed his face, and he wished he could share the near arrogant joke with someone else.

Then he remembered and the nausea overtook him, sending him bending over the side of his bed to vomit a mix of water, medicine, and bile onto the plain grey marble floor. The queen had been arrested, and he had been forced to give up the plans for every invention he'd ever created. Ambrose, sweaty, pale, and trying to ignore the foul taste in his mouth, mourned that he could not save Queen Lavender, one of his first and dearest friends.

That witch possessing the teenaged princess, Azkadellia, had driven the child to new depths of horror . . . and he, the celebrated most brilliant mind in all the O.Z., had been unable to stop it, to save the girl or her family . . . much as he could not save another family . . .

Shame and grief mixed with the pain, and Ambrose lay back in his sweat-and-sick soaked bed, ignoring his physical discomfort. His mental anguish held far more sway over the cerebrally-inclined man. He closed his eyes and tried to fight the emotions, tried to think of a way out of this mess . . . for himself and the kingdom he loved so well.

The sound of his door unlatching brought Ambrose's eyes slamming open. A woman slipped in, her back to him, carefully easing the door shut. Her light grey outfit had been streaked with dirt and torn partially off one tanned shoulder. The exposed shoulder had a long gash, dried blood congealed over the wound and tracing down her back and onto the simple linen blouse. One wrist had rope burns, bruises, and cuts over it, while from the other dangled a long knotted rope. The woman's long dark brown hair had come partially out of a pile on her head and spilled over her back and clothed shoulder. She wore no shoes or stockings on her tanned feet.

When she turned, surprise coursed through the royal advisor . . . not at her disreputable appearance but at her identity. "Leona?" he whispered, hardly believing his eyes. He had no idea why the queen's cousin would be there rather than the grasslands . . . or why she was dressed in such a way.

Her vivid blue eyes lit with apparent joy and she hurried over to the man in the hospital bed. "Ambrose," she asked, "that is you, Ambrose?"

Ambrose sighed and gave a nod, then groaned softly, his free hand lifting to touch his bandaged head. He lay back into the pillows, trying to catch his breath as the IV whirred to life and administered just enough medicine to ease the pain, but not enough to knock him out.

"When I said I wanted you lying helpless before me, this is not what I had in mind," Leona frowned, her serious sounding words conjuring images of teenagers in a field sketching plants and calling mock insults back and forth.

Surprised that the unusual woman had recalled such a long ago moment, he groaned out, "You'll be the death of me yet, Leona." He opened weary brown eyes at the sound of her bedraggled skirts swishing around her legs.

She had come to his bedside, a wide smile stretching across her tanned face. "Now that's what you always say, Ambrose." She sounded pleased at his reaction.

He merely groaned in response. Leona had always been the most unconventional thinker of his acquaintance.

"Have sex with me," she stated, her tone matter of fact.

Opening eyes wide in shock, unsure if he'd heard her correctly, Ambrose stammered, "wh . . . what?" Unconventional was the least that this woman was.

As if she didn't realize just how surprising her request was, Leona looked down at the floor before her then at his dirtied sheets. "Well, naturally, I'll clean you up first." She glanced over the room and added, "this isn't the most alluring setting, but I can make due."

"What?" he practically screamed. She could not be meaning what he was hearing . . . even Leona had some sense.

"Oh dear," worry flashed in her vivid blue eyes and she lay a hand on his arm, her injured wrist very evident against the white sheet. "Has your surgery damaged your ears, Ambrose, or just your processing?"

Reminding himself to tread carefully with this woman, he gently replied, "uh . . . both, I believe . . . I thought you just propositioned me." Ambrose frowned as he studied her face, looking for signs of what she really thought.

She smiled in response and nodded. "Nope, you're fine. I did proposition you." She sounded pleased.

"Leona Cerulean Gale . . . can you not see I'm a sick man?" The royal advisor pushed himself to a half-sitting position, sounding austere and forbidding.

Leona laughed. "Ambrose Dillian Shiz, you have always been a sick man. But I'm willing to fix that."

Genuine fear shot through the man as his eyes flew to the door, all sense of the absurdity of their conversation leaving. Trembling, Ambrose whispered, "don't . . . Leona, you know you can't tell anyone . . ."

"That I'm fixing you?" She frowned and shook her head, looking puzzled. "I don't see why not. In fact, it's probably better if they did know . . . it's the whole realm I'm . . ."

"No!" he interrupted her wayward thoughts. "My name . . . we haven't figured out who killed father yet . . ." he added, trying to get her to understand the severity of the situation. One could never tell with Leona just what she understood.

The woman sank onto the bed, ignoring the mess he'd made upon waking. Her voice took on a gentle, confused tone. "Killed . . . Ambrose, that was thirty-seven annuals ago." She wrinkled her nose suddenly and stood up, glaring at her even dirtier dress. With a sigh, she removed her hand from his arm and dropped to her knees, no sign of grace in the princess. Beginning to use a towel from the bedside table, she started trying to clean up the mess. Her voice took on a gentle tone. "Do you think he's really still looking for you? He got your brother and sisters, and most people . . ."

Exasperation filled the man and he practically snarled "Yes, Leona, I think that whoever attacked my family knew there was a younger brother and is still looking for me . . . that's why you're supposed to call me Ambrose Harding." He tried to gentle his tone, knowing that nastiness never worked with Leona. She had always been able to ignore it.

Leona wrinkled her nose, looking thoughtful. "I don't think people believe you're a munchkin, Ambrose." She rose to her feet, one steadying hand on the bed rail. Dropping the towel, she grabbed a fresh one from the small supply nearby and dipped it in the water pitcher. She began to clean the mess from his face and arm. "But give me a moment to change the linens and we can get back to fixing you." She said,

His quick mind managed to make the gigantic leap backwards in conversation and Ambrose rolled his eyes, praying for patience. On a sigh, he claimed, "you will certainly be the death . . ." At her smile he frowned severely but something she said fought to the fore. Eyes widening, he said, "wait . . . what do you mean thirty-seven annuals? It's only been twenty-nine since that . . . day."

Leona reached over and gripped his shoulders, sitting him up completely, steadying him. Surprisingly no pain or dizziness struck the man and he allowed her to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The medicine must have been working.

Then she answered his question, sounding chipper. "Nope. You're missing eight annuals, but then who wants to remember the years that evil ruled over our beautiful O.Z.?"

"Eight annuals?" he said, allowing her to stand him up. He leaned on her, shocked and disoriented for a long moment before finally standing on his own. Slowly he realized that he had nothing on: no hospital gown, no drawers, nothing. As she began to strip the soiled linens from the bed, Ambrose blushed and pulled at the sheet, trying to cover his nudity.

"No," she scolded, as if to a child playing in the mud, "that's messy, too." She reached for the robe on the chair and let her wide blue eyes rove over his form as he flushed brightly. "Shame to cover that, but here," she handed him the robe.

Mortified despite her compliment, he slipped the robe on one arm then wrapped it around his body, since his IV got in the way of actual dressing. Using both hands, he held the cloth shut; there was no apparent tie. Finally, feeling more in control, he asked "what are you doing here, Leona?"

Her face set in lines of concentration, she looked at him. She offered a quick smile and said, "changing your linens, Ambrose."

Ambrose would not allow her to confuse him. Instead, he took control of the conversation. "No, why are you here . . . not in the grasslands?"

"Oh, that," she laughed and tossed the dirty bed linens on the floor with the dirty towels. "I've been taken hostage so I can be a sex slave and take over the O.Z. with my new husband." She sounded cheery.

"What?" shock once again coursed through the royal advisor and his eyes flew immediately to the woman's bare left hand before meeting her eyes in confusion.

She shook her head, more hair spilling from her topknot. "Really, you should have that looked at. Maybe I can fix that too." She looked around but didn't seem to find what she sought and continued speaking. "But I don't really like Randu . . . he's . . . well if I have sex with someone else, he'll leave me alone. So who else is available?" She beamed at him, seemingly unbothered by her predicament.

Ambrose rolled his eyes and groaned at her brand of logic. Touching his bandaged head carefully, he muttered, "the death of me."

Leona tilted her head and looked thoughtful, "if I can get you off that IV, it'll be easier." She nodded and tugged him back to the bed. "Come here. Sit."

Despite the whirlwind she created everywhere she went, the advisor obeyed her, sinking to the stripped mattress; he hated IVs. She lifted both hands and placed them over his head. They began to glow a soft white-yellow and warmth began to seep into the man. After only a few minutes, she removed her hands and the glowing stopped. At last, the woman carefully untaped the IV site then removed the needle, ignoring the liquid as it continued to pump out onto the floor. Ambrose knew she hadn't healed him entirely, but the small dose of magic had stopped the headache and dizziness completely.

The sound of boots in the hall came to the pair and Leona lifted a terrified face. She looked around the room, spotting the built-in closet, and pulled open the door. Quickly, she stuffed herself inside between a wheelchair and a respirator machine, shutting the door. The heavy boots continued on by without stopping.

Frowning, knowing Leona was in more danger than her apparently flippant conversation had denoted, Ambrose reached for the door and opened it. "All clear," he said softly, gently. "No sex master . . ."

She grinned at him, relief in her eyes, as she came out. With a soft laugh she said, "well, it's a nicer hiding spot then the computer cabinet three rooms down." Smoothing her trembling hands over her dirty, torn skirt, she added "though I did hear a very interesting conversation between Randu and a nice sounding couple called the Cains. Think we can change rooms? This one smells of hospital." She seemed to flit from one thought to another as easily as a butterfly.

Ambrose, however, did not pay attention to her request. Something flashed across his memory. The tall blond man, again, this time kneeling at a grave. Ambrose shook his head knowing that there was something odd about the image, but he couldn't place the man or the situation. Finally what Leona said sank in and he replied "yes, let's get out of here before the medicos come back." Ambrose grabbed Leona's hand and headed for the door, intent on finding a hiding spot . . . and some clean clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	14. Help from Unexpected Quarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Ambrose wakes up after surgery and is accosted by Leona. She tells him about the coup and propositions him. Both are severely injured.

Gentle hands over hers stopped Azkadellia's painful attempts at dressing herself. Dylan tugged the scarlet blouse over her shoulders and down over her hips then helped guide her splinted, broken wrist through one of the loose sleeves. "Az . . . " his voice sounded as gentle as his actions, "take it easy."

Az let him continue, fighting her embarrassment and confusion at their circumstances. He lifted the grey skirt knee high, but she merely raised her arms. Understanding seemed to dawn in the young man's eyes as he slid the flowing material over her head, seemingly ignoring the fact that he only wore a towel and a loose shirt.

Quietly, Az said, "the shaper goes over both, Dylan, but I'll need you to lace it . . . not too tightly."

He nodded and did as instructed, carefully ensuring that her hair, streaming to her hips, wasn't caught in the material or ties. Once he had her decently attired, Dylan moved back to his pile of clothes and turned his back to the princess. He slipped into drawers, awkwardly working under the towel wrapped over his own pelvis. After pulling on a pair of sturdy trousers, he tossed the towel to their heap of dirty laundry and turned, fastening the closure quickly. Sitting next to his companion, the man reached over and picked up her stockings. "Do you want some pain medicine, Az?" he asked.

She lifted both feet onto his lap, allowing his help still. "Yes, please . . . Dylan. I feel like I'll pass out."

Dylan nodded and quickly put her stockings on her. Slipping her feet to the floor, he rose and went to the medicine box, looking for something stronger than the original drug he'd given her.

A knock on the cabin door brought both occupants whirling around, evidently on edge from their ordeal. Without waiting for a response, a rather pretty middle-aged woman walked in and offered a gentle smile. "We've food for you, when you wish. My other boots should fit you, Your Highness." She gestured to a pair of sturdy walking boots by the door.

Gratitude swept through Az, and she offered a smile in return. "Thank you . . ."

The woman nodded but didn't provide her name. Rather, she gestured to the medicine in Dylan's hands. "You'll find very little there, Captain . . . we've young ones in the home." Apparently, the children had been hidden at the arrival of strangers, a habit resistance fighters had long practiced despite the witch never bothering with their young. "Come outside and we'll medicate you while you eat."

"Again . . . thank you." Az hesitated then opened her mouth to directly ask her hostess' name, but the woman slipped out too quickly. With a sigh, the princess looked at her companion. "Will I ever learn their names?"

At the odd question, Dylan laughed softly. He fastened a belt around his lean waist then picked up his whip. "Resistance fighters are shy, Az. We don't give our names easily. I'll see what I can do for you, though." He made a face at the condition of his weapon and turned to clean it in the hand basin. Apparently the leather had been waterproofed which made for easier cleaning, but after using a towel on it, the man draped the whip double crosswise, shoulder to opposite hip, to finish drying. Quickly he donned socks and boots then helped Az into the other woman's offered footwear. "Let's get that medicine." He gently helped her to stand, careful of her broken wrist.

She went with him but flushed as her hair tangled around her hips. "My hair, Dylan . . . I'm engaged," she told him, self-consciously, hoping he would respect the customs of her people; who knew what the Nature Clan practiced if they counted scarification among their rituals.

He paused, looking at her in apparent surprise. Steel colored eyes studied the long mass then moved to her face, meeting her deep hazel eyes. Nodding, sending relief through Az, he opened the door. "I'll braid it for you if you'd like? It's the only hairstyle I know," He slipped the knife into his belt, but she didn't protest.

"Yes, please," she responded preceding him out of the cabin.

The pair found a low, crude bench set near the recently built fire. The pastry chef and the woman, most likely his wife, seemed the only beings present. Even the horses had been moved on in the mass desertion of the camp. As Dylan and Az sat down, the man provided them bowls of soup and heels of day-old bread. The woman brought over a small tin of pills, offering one with a cup of water, which Az gladly swallowed.

Finally the chef squatted next to Dylan, pulling out a crudely drawn map. "Here, Captain. My wife drew this for you . . . best one for good directions I've ever known." He smiled at the pretty woman, and she flushed, ducking into her home.

No matter how crude the map, it was certainly as precise as the chef promised. Even measurements had been neatly listed, the criss-crossing paths and roads depicting ways to Central City, the Western Tower, and the Crack across the O.Z. in the south. "Not sure where you want to travel to, Your Highness," the man spoke over Dylan to Az. "Doubt you'll be able to fight with that arm. Best go south, I'm thinking."

She nodded, swallowing the food she'd been enthusiastically eating; she had missed breakfast after all. "We're going south to Finnaqua," she informed him, knowing the location of the pleasure palace was ready information to all.

Dylan nodded. "We'll need horses and a doctor, first."

Smiling grimly, the chef nodded. "Horses can be found here," he pointed to the first juncture of the Vinkus River and the southern brick route. "There's no real village but a blacksmith and farrier live in a tiny hamlet . . . no name except Vinkus, like the river. They always help and often change horses for travellers." He gestured further south on the map. "Course the road goes through the Papay fields further on. You can avoid that by leaving the road and going through the hills here, but don't miss getting back on the road or you won't find crossing over the Crack. Serra didn't know further down. She's never been south."

"Serra," murmured Az, offering the chef a smile. "I will remember her kindness . . . and yours, Sir."

"Name's Furren, Your Highness," he smiled at the pair. "And we're just glad to help. We thought there might be trouble with so many young men in the Long Coat service, but never thought they'd be fool enough to attack the Family. Must be that ambitious bastard Zero."

"No!" Az shook her head, vehemently "Zero wouldn't do this!" Both men looked dubious, but she knew that her former bodyguard would never betray her. She didn't care if they didn't believe her; if Zero were alive, he'd put down this rebellion for her. Unfortunately, it had been a month since he'd rode off to arrest DG's party. They'd made it; he had not. Unsure how she felt about the idea that DG's Tin Man may have killed her own bodyguard, Az pushed the idea deep. There was no time to break down and any serious thought about losing her oldest friend tore at her heart.

Serra came out of her home, carrying two men's jackets and a bright butter-colored cloth. "Your Highness, should I hold this robe for you?" she asked, looking uncomfortable handling the silk.

"No," Dylan said, reaching for it. "I'll take it, Serra." Dylan pulled out the knife and started cutting the strong yet delicate looking material.

Az let him, apparently to the surprise of her hosts, finishing her food. "How long to get to Vinkus?" She asked softly, looking up at the woman.

"Um . . . if you leave soon, you should reach it a couple hours after zenith." Serra offered the jackets, flushing when Az looked at the sturdy items; they were homespun and nowhere near as pretty as the slowly destroyed robe. "That arm won't fit through my coat sleeve without cutting, and it's still chilly these spring nights, Your Highness," she explained.

Nodding, Az carefully rose and took the proffered jackets, folding them awkwardly into a bulky bundle. "Thank you, Serra," she met the older woman's kind eyes and smiled gently.

Serra flushed, nodded, and handed over some leather hair ties. "I can do your hair if you'd like?"

Dylan looked up from his work to watch the women.

Despite having already accepted Dylan's offer, Az nodded at the woman. "Yes, please." She turned, granting the woman access to her hair. She offered a smile of apology to her companion as Serra quickly plaited the long tresses.

He smiled back and finished shredding her favorite dressing gown. Rising to his feet, he strode over and wrapped a thick diamond of the material over her chest, tying the two far points behind her neck then adjusting the knot to the side, preventing pressure to her neck. He padded the point where it lay across her flesh, using some of the bandaging from the medical kit. Using more soft bandaging in the widest part of the folded cloth, Dylan carefully slid Az's right wrist into the support, letting her arm take the bulk of the pressure.

She whimpered as he manipulated her limb, but relief washed over her as she realized the pain medicine had taken effect . . . she could tolerate this.

When Serra stepped back, Furren eased a well-stocked supply pack onto Dylan's back then turned with a second leather satchel. He took the folded jackets and extra hair ties from Az and slid them into the pack then handed it to Dylan, who slipped the pack onto the princess's back.

Dylan wrapped the knife in a strip of silk and placed that, and the leftover yellow cloth, in Az's pack as Serra slid the medicine tin in Dylan's.

"My thanks, Serra . . . Furren . . . for all you have done," Az said. She offered a last smile as Dylan shook hands with the couple, thanking them quietly.

Finally, Dylan took Az gently by her good hand and led her from the clearing, aiming for the brick route nearby. A few minutes later they were out sight of their rescuers. The resistance fighter stopped the princess, handed her the map, and turned her back to him. Slipping something from her pack, he began wrapping a slippery substance around her braid, crossing over several times, and ending with tying it off at the bottom. When finished, he again took the map and her hand and led her through the treeline onto the well traveled road.

She knew he'd just used the tie from her robe to decorate her hair. It was probably foolish, but the gesture from her companion seemed sweet. She smiled, letting him guide her as they continued the first leg of their long quest for help.

xxx

Mere minutes had passed with the dog comfortably perched over his neck and shoulders before Jeb felt an odd vibration down his spine. Suddenly, the dog stiffened and rolled off his human perch, falling into a thick patch of fuzzy serrated leaves, convulsing like before.

"Baxter!" Jeb shouted and reached into the weeds for the helpless animal.

Pain ripped through the young man's fine-boned hands, the serrated-edged plant tearing at his work-roughened flesh. "Damn!" he cursed, wrapping his burning hands around the small twitching body and dragging him from the undergrowth.

The dog had been cut and his flesh was bleeding and blistering.

Sudden understanding shocked through the human. "Fireweed!" He desperately scooped up the injured animal, ignoring his own increasing pain from the caustic actions of the plant's acidic defense. "Water . . . " Jeb moaned and turned towards the river he'd been hearing close by.

Stumbling out of the trees and onto the slippery rock-strewn bank, Jeb realized the dog had stopped convulsing and now lay eerily still. Without pause, the resistance leader plunged directly into the icy water and sank down, a scream ripped from his lips. The pain intensified tenfold, but Baxter barely responded, his entire body appearing to be once mass acid burn. Jeb frantically tried to think how he could remove the corrosive. From somewhere came the memory of his mother's voice explaining the properties of the vicious plant, and as he tried to wash the dog off, he painfully reached for the river mud at the bottom of the swiftly running water.

A second pair of hands, gloved in leather with the tips of the fingers exposed, scooped up large handfuls of mud and slathered it over the panting, bloody dog. While the other person worked, Jeb didn't bother to even look next to him; he shoved his hands deep into the pebbly silt, feeling instant relief. His unexpected companion continued to lather the dog, apparently ignoring the fact that most of Baxter's fur fell out along with layers of skin peeling back. Jeb pulled his hands from the soothing mud and began to help, despite the increasing pain he felt as the water washed the mud off his burns.

Finally, the dog lay on Jeb's lap, held above the low waterline by the young man's muscular thighs. Mud coated practically every inch of the animal. With a sigh, slipping his hands once more into the soothing mud, Jeb breathed "thank you." He raised pain-filled blue-grey eyes to his erstwhile companion, expecting the creepy woman from earlier.

Surprise coursed through him at the appearance of this unknown woman as she was dressed in men's clothes: trousers, tunic, vest, jacket, and strong boots. Her deep auburn hair had been braided along the sides and combined into one long, thick braid down her back, ending just below her waist. Worry seemed to fill her whisky-colored eyes. She put a steady, wet hand on his shoulder and nodded mutely.

Following her movements with his head, Jeb watched as she stepped out of the river and pulled off her wet jacket, belt, and gloves. Before he could react, she slid the sword from Jeb's hilt and began drying it across her tunic, finally laying it on a dry rock on the bank. He watched in increasing confusion as she began kneading river mud into a flat blue-tinted leaf, liberally blending grass and crushed seeds from the water reeds into the mess. Firmly, she closed strong fingers around Jeb's forearm and wrapped the mixture over his injured hand. The woman carefully slipped one of her gloves on him, holding the mess in place, though his blistered fingertips did stick out of the open glove ends. He was vaguely aware that her gloves fit him perfectly as she treated his other hand, ignoring the fact that his fingertips remained unprotected.

Once done with the man, the woman turned her attention to mixing enough of her rough medicine for the dog's entire head and body.

Jeb rose and walked from the river, cradling Baxter against him. He began to lie the dog down in order to help, but she shook her head and doctored the animal herself. After long minutes, the woman wrapped her jacket around the mud-covered dog, using the sleeves to secure the bundle. She straightened and tied her belt around the dog and jacket then secured it around her shoulders.

Shocked, Jeb reached for the dog. "I'll carry him . . ."

She shook her head again, not giving him a choice since he couldn't use his hands. Carefully she re-coated Jeb's exposed fingertips, much to his relief. Stooping, the redhead washed the concoction from her hands, a sapphire and silver ring flashing on her left ring finger. She straightened. With a stiff nod, the woman reached for more of the low hanging seed pods of the water-logged reeds growing in the shallows. She broke open a pod and put several seeds into her mouth, chewing carefully. After a moment, she took the pulp from her mouth and forced it between the dog's teeth. She rubbed at his throat and he swallowed reflexively. She picked another pod, opened it, and turned, offering the contents to Jeb.

"No . . . thanks," he said, wary of this unknown woman's motives and what she may have done to the princess's dog.

She gave him a stern glare and offered the seeds again, gesturing to his hands.

Confused by her silence, but realizing that she must be offering him a pain medicine, Jeb relented and opened his mouth, allowing her to feed him the seeds. He obediently began to chew and was struck by a bitter taste and spreading numbness. The juice seemed to course down his throat and throughout his body, adding to the soothing of his acid-tormented hands. Unfortunately, lethargy accompanied the pain relief. _’And that's why she's carrying Baxter, not me,’_ thought Jeb. "Thanks again," he said, fighting the drifting feeling. "I'm Jeb. That's Baxter." He stepped cautiously away from the water and she bent, picking up his forgotten sword, then stood and slipped her other arm around him. The sun glinted dully off a collar around her neck . . . a very familiar looking collar. "Hey. Baxter has one of those," he remarked, almost feeling like he floated in a dream.

She looked at him, her liquid amber eyes studying him, but made no attempt to speak. Rather, she guided him from the Kells River and onto the road he'd been avoiding. He let her.

Looking down at the slightly shorter woman, Jeb frowned. "What's your name?"

With a small shake of her head, she gestured to her throat with her hand, still gripping his sword.

Nodding in slow understanding, Jeb looked thoughtful. "Maybe I can guess? If I tell you the correct letter, you nod. A? B?" She shook her head at each letter but watched him intently as he tried to get his medicated-sluggish brain to function. When he hit upon 'M', she nodded slightly. "M . . ." Jeb nodded in response then started for the next letter, making no effort to begin travelling as he guessed.

Finally, he came to the end of her name. "Mariah . . ." At her confirming nod, he said, "Baxter and I need to get to the Nature Clan." He knew he probably shouldn't trust the stranger, but he also knew that he and Baxter needed some serious help. At least she wasn't as creepy as that other, older woman.

Turning him carefully southward, the woman repositioned her arm to provide him better support as she carried Baxter in the makeshift sling. They began to tread the old brick route towards the first bend of the Vinkus River, a place Jeb knew would take at least another hour to reach in their current condition. There he knew would be horses and some of his resistance fighters, though his silent companion didn't seem to mind helping for the moment. Jeb idly wondered if it was because he was dressed as a royal guard from the House of Gale . . . or if she had some other unspoken reason for her timely assistance. At the moment, he couldn't protest. He needed her help too much.

Neither seemed aware of the distant figure slowly shadowing them on their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	15. A Change of Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Dylan helps Az and they meet some resistance fighters who aid them on their journey. Jeb and Toto are injured and get helped from a stranger. Mariah introduced.

After two hours, DG hadn't come up with a way to transport the unconscious, bed-ridden royal advisor. She glanced over at the figure of Wyatt Cain, lying still and sleeping on the simple bed. A frown had settled on his face, and she wondered what dreams were disturbing him.

Leaning over, DG carefully reached to stroke the lines from his forehead, but the sound of a door latch lifting had her whirling, drawing the heavy revolver. Holding the unfamiliar weapon in both hands, she took aim, not at the hall door but the one she assumed led to the bathroom. Carefully, she slid from the bed while the door eased open. Not waiting for Randu to sneak in through the connecting bathroom, DG called out steadily, "that's far enough. You back off or I'll . . ."

Her words cut off as the door swung open to reveal not the Long Coat commander but a woman perhaps the same age as Azkadellia.

DG didn't lower Wyatt's gun as she studied the long flowing pale blue dress, the loose hair so black it looked almost violet, and the pearl-like white eyes of the stranger. "Who the hell are you?" she asked in a stage-whisper, hoping not to wake the exhausted man sleeping behind her.

In response, the woman held her slender-fingered hands completely visible, a glass of water clasped in one, a soft frown on her pale face. Slowly, watching DG with caution in those translucent eyes, the woman slowly put one hand over her own throat and awkwardly dipped two fingers from her other hand into the glass she held. She spoke in an echoing alto, "my name is Arista. Lady Rimi sent me, but I lost my companion on the way." She kept her hand to her throat as she continued, "you have the right to kill me as a spy, but I beg you to hear our plea."

"Arista," DG studied the other woman, mildly surprised that totally white eyes weren't blind. "Rimi . . . okay, I'm listening, but I'm keeping the gun." She had always trusted her instincts about the people she met in the O.Z., so she determined she'd give this odd woman a chance, as well.

The woman called Arista nodded and gestured back to the room behind her then again lightly grasped her own throat. A faint liquid blue light seemed to glow where she touched. "May I refill my water? I feel dehydrated."

DG frowned and nodded. "Go ahead," she said, blue eyes narrowing.

Arista dropped her hand from her throat and turned, stumbling slightly as she moved to the sink just inside the bathroom door. Quickly she drank the water already in her glass then refilled the tumbler from the sink. Arista slipped two fingers back into the water, holding the glass carefully in the rest of her hand then turned, again placing her free hand at her throat. She looked quite serious as she said, "thank you, Princess."

"Whoa!" DG shifted her stance and adjusted her grip on the gun. "Why do you call me that?"

A gentle close-lipped smile crossed the older woman's blue-tinged lips. "We used to play together as children, when my sister would visit with your parents," she replied. "Of course, that ended when you were five." She turned back to the bathroom sink, drank her water and refilled the glass, slipping her fingers into the water yet again as she turned back to DG. Her eyes moved past DG to take in the sight of the man sleeping on the bed. "Oh! Is he your husband, DG? He's beautiful."

DG glanced over her shoulder at the still frowning figure of Wyatt. His regular breathing told her that he slept on. Recalling his warning about revealing her single status, DG turned back to their odd visitor and said, "Yeah. You came here with a message?"

"Yes. The Witch of the Darkness may be gone," she bowed her head regally, "my sister, Lady Rimi, thanks you for your sacrifices. However, the witch's troops have attacked both Aquam and Spiritus. We request clan peace cooperation. I would have come with my treaty companion, but we were attacked and separated. I can prove my claims to parlay, Princess."

"Don't call me that," DG hissed, glancing towards the hall door. "If you haven't noticed, we aren't exactly free here, either." Eyes narrowing, DG asked "how did you get in here? We're four flights up and surrounded by Long Coats."

Arista nodded and lifted the glass of water, releasing her throat. The hand in contact with the water began to glow a soft blue liquid light. The water and light swirled up into the air, shimmering into a gossamer pattern before falling into the glass with a soft splash. She once more placed her free hand on her throat and the faint blue light became noticeable as she touched fingers to skin.

Unsure what she had just witnessed, the image of a glowing symbol on her palm came to mind and DG suddenly figured that her guest had just shown the Aquam passcode.

"The water tells me who to find and where to go," Arista said, odd white eyes meeting DG's vibrant blue ones. "I used the waterway to travel here as my companion was no longer with me to risk becoming lost."

With a nod, DG sighed. "So, Randu attacked more than just us? He took over the tower, said Princess Leona was claiming the throne." She finally lowered the heavy gun. "What did the Long Coats do to Aquam?"

Drinking and refilling her water again, Arista made no move to come further into the room than the door nearest the bathroom sink. "The gillikinese man who came brought a large troop of men dressed in the witch's regimentals," she said, her voice echoing softly as she held her throat lightly. "Lady Rimi and our warriors turned back these attackers, but . . ." she sighed, apparently thinking through the words she wanted to use.

Patiently, DG nodded and waited. She would be just as worried in the same circumstances . . . coming to strangers for help, attacked along the way, slipping into what might be the heart of the enemy stronghold . . . actually, it sounded very much like her own recent adventures against the witch.

Finally, Arista spoke again. "We know we cannot stop these men for long and so I was sent for help from the Spiritus Clan in Finnaqua."

Surprise coursed through DG as she realized that going to a people living in lake country made perfect sense for a people who used water magic, even though she had rather expected to hear Arista say they were sent directly to the Gales. She was puzzled, though, by the magical balance: if the Aquam people used water magic, what did the lake country's Spiritus Clan use for magic energy?

"My companion fell ill and the House of Aeris graciously sent a messenger in his place so we could continue to ask for aid. We were forced to travel the slow way," Arista sighed, apparently frustrated with the limitations of the other clans. "We tried to find the Sapientiam Clan in their underworld lair . . ."

"The Unwanted?" DG asked and flushed at Arista's frown.

The other woman continued, "the witch's troops attacked and separated us. I had to escape through the water and, as I knew the House of Gale recently fought this enemy and triumphed, I came to you. I do not know the fate of Mariah." She finished her water and replaced it a fifth time. "I've no idea if my companion even survived." She sighed then glanced at Wyatt sleeping on the bed, a look of interest crossing her features.

DG stepped into Arista's view. She didn't want the other woman's attention on the Tin Man . . . he was pretty much helpless in his sleep, she told herself, and it was her job to protect him. "I don't have access to a messenger I can send with you, but we need this clan cooperation, too." She sighed in an unconscious echo of the Aquam Clan woman.

The sound of heavy boots outside in the hall sent Arista backing into the bathroom, softly closing the door. DG raised the revolver, pointing it at the hall door. The sound stopped right outside and someone tried the latch, but the door remained locked just as Randu had left it.

Planning to get a surprise attack in, DG stepped over to the door and listened carefully.

Another booted figure stopped at the door. "Well?" Randu's voice sounded impatient. "Have you found her yet?"

The first man spoke, lighter and unfamiliar to DG. "No, Sir! We've checked upstairs and down. No sign of Princess Leona. And when we checked on that patient you were told about, it looks like he escaped, too. There was vomit and stuff everywhere, but no identifiers as to who he was."

DG's hand shot to her mouth in case she let out any noise. Cousin Leona was missing? Did that mean she was a prisoner, rather than a conspirator? And the patient could only be Glitch . . . what had happened to him? Where could he have gone?

"Find her!" DG held her breath at the growl from the other side of the door. "You realize we cannot hold sway with these people if she is not here . . . I need her, willing or not, to make my claims of royal lineage. I cannot produce an heir without a bride, you ass! How the hell can the most idiotic woman known to exist elude my men?" Anger vibrated through Randu's deep voice, chasing away any images of geniality he'd previously displayed.

"Sir, what if she got out? A couple of men thought a woman may have gotten through the sewers. She may be with that patient . . ."

Randu's voice lowered a notch and DG leaned even closer to hear the threatening tones. "If she _has_ escaped, I will punish a man for every day of incompetence I have to deal with." His voice seemed to soften ominously. "Fortunately, I have a backup . . . but I have to get her from her moronic husband first. Imagine marrying a royal off to a stupid guard . . . I don't fancy tangling with an idiot of a Tin Man, Captain, even if he's almost as big a dolt as that woman."

"Sir!" the Captain responded, accompanied by the sound of a stamping boot. Running footsteps followed.

As the hall fell silent and DG straightened, the sound of a key in the lock brought instant alertness and DG scampered back to the bed. She slid onto the mattress, the gun under her, and buried her face in Wyatt's neck, hoping he would not wake up and praying that he would. She placed a hand on his chest, curling her fingers around the opening of the jacket, all too aware it would look strange for a honeymooning couple to be completely dressed. She had to pray their captor would think the _’idiot of a Tin Man’_ was too tired to enjoy his husbandly rights at the moment.

The door swung open but DG pretended to be sleeping. Apparently whatever Randu saw satisfied the man as the door swung closed once more and his footsteps retreated down the hallway.

DG let out the breath she had been holding and lay still against her bodyguard, trying to quiet her racing heart.

xxx

_First came heat then pressure then he lost all control. It felt like he was flying, and Wyatt Cain briefly wondered if he'd be seeing his wife again. The moment lasted forever before he fell fast and time sped up. A heartbeat. Two. Three._

_The pain of his back impacting on the frozen surface of the lake was nothing compared to the absolute fire overloading every nerve in his body. He would have thought ice water would feel cold . . . not this all-encompassing burning. He took a deep breath in shock and began to choke on the freezing water invading his lungs, hardly feeling the bruising blinding starburst of pain still radiating from his heart._

_In sheer defense, Wyatt passed out as he sank towards the bottom of the lake._

_He would doubt his memory later. He'd been dying, and men were known to become delirious for less. Everyone knew that even touching one of the people from the Aquam Clan resulted in horrible ice burns and infection, unless magical means were involved. Since he'd never been known to be magical, Wyatt couldn't trust the memory. After all, he actually recalled not only being caught and lifted by a woman under the frozen waters but kissed as well._

_Her lips felt warm as they closed over his. Liquid pearl eyes, large and luminescent in the dark depths, entranced him, holding his attention. Framing pale skin, violet-tinted black hair tangled them together, her body lithe and graceful against his larger, sturdier bulk. She tilted her head to seal her lips over his and rather that blowing air into his lungs, as one would do on land for a drowning victim, she drew the water from his lungs. A soft feeling, like that of a mother caressing her infant's cheek, came over him, and the burning subsided. He felt no pain from any of his wounds._

_That feeling of flying returned, but this time he rushed upwards rather than falling downward._

_Wyatt opened his eyes to the sight of Glitch. The other man put wood into a small stove. Just the sight of the garish bedclothes and colorful ceiling told Wyatt that they were inside Demilo's wagon. He had no idea how Glitch had gotten him out of the lake . . . his memory too fantastical to be trusted. Somehow, he owed the brainless ex-convict his life. Wyatt didn't like being indebted to anyone, but he couldn't fight it right then. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep._

The sensation of a warm body sliding up against his and a face burrowing against his neck brought Wyatt out of his dreams . . . or were they memories? He encircled his arm around the unknown feminine waist and tried to gain his bearings before opening his eyes. The sound of a door had the Tin Man thanking his luck that he'd kept his eyes closed. The woman beside him burrowed her face deeper into his neck and he vaguely wondered if it could be DG, but his memories and awareness were too clouded with dreams and exhaustion.

After what seemed a very long time the door closed once more and footsteps faded down the hallway. Wyatt opened his eyes; as the room came into focus so did his memories. He carefully shook the woman in his arm and she trembled slightly. "DG?"

She lifted her head, wide cerulean eyes staring into his lighter crystal ones. "Randu's lost Leona," she said in a hoarse whisper. "She's a prisoner. And we've got a messenger in the bath . . . uh water closet next door."

"A messenger?" He sat up, drawing his arm from around the princess.

She sat as well then pulled his revolver from under her and re-holstered it, slipping out of the bed. "Her name's Arista, and she's from the Aquam Clan."

"Aquam?" Wyatt frowned, standing and trying to straighten his uniform. Next time he would take the jacket, belt, and boots off at least. He hated sleeping dressed. "I've heard they can't leave the water."

The bathroom door opened softly and Arista stepped gracefully through, two fingers once more dipped into her glass of water and the other hand resting lightly over her own throat. "Hello," her voice echoed softly. "I remember you." She smiled as she spoke, revealing a double row of sharply pointed teeth.

"You?" Wyatt felt as if his world shifted and he frowned at the pale woman before him.

"Wait . . ." DG's voice sounded less than approving. "You two know each other?"

"I have no interest in your husband," Arista soothed and DG flushed while Wyatt sighed.

Their cover identities had been meant for the Long Coats, not the outside world. Unfortunately, he couldn't figure a way out of this particular situation. "She saved me from the lake at the Northern Island," Wyatt explained, frowning.

DG seemed to accept that and she nodded. "Oh."

Their visitor studied them a long moment before asking, "is there a way I can help you both? Without a partner I cannot continue the treaty parlay, but perhaps I can deliver a message to someone before I return to Lady Rimi for another partner."

"Actually," Wyatt nodded, feeling slightly out of things but jumping at her offer nonetheless, "you _can_ contact someone for us. I might be able to solve your partner problem, too." He glanced at DG. "The others split up to try to contact the different clans for help. Jeb went after your parents to warn them about the attack." He turned back to Arista. "DG and I were supposed to go to the Guild Fighters for help."

"Of all Realms, they are least likely to accept a lone messenger . . . except Phlogiston Clan . . . but they are generally self-absorbed, autocratic barbarians . . ."

"I don't want you to go alone," Wyatt cut through her complaint. Clan rivalries were a major problem since the fall of the Mortem Clan. "Once Jeb's given the queen his message, he'll head to the abandoned Academy north of Central City . . . Shiz Academy."

"I know it," she said then drank her water and replenished it from the sink.

The Tin Man nodded, "Good. Once he gets there, he can be sent on the parlay if he has a partner who has the passcodes. You could accompany him east." Wyatt ran a strong hand through his short blond hair.

"That's a good idea," DG sounded thoughtful. "And you can let them know that we're prisoners . . . and so are Glitch and Leona."

Blinking luminescent white eyes, the Aquam woman looked at DG. "Glitch?"

"Ambrose, the queen's advisor," filled in Wyatt, impatient to send the message now that the plan had been formed.

Another smile spread across the pale woman's face. "Ah . . . Ambrose. Did you know that he's most amusing when he's confused?" She drank and refilled her water, eyeing the faucet. "This man Jeb . . . if he doesn't know the passcodes, how will he trust me? A written missive will not last when I travel through the water, Mr. Gale."

Wyatt stiffened and shock coursed over DG's face. Of course, if they were really married, he would be expected to take her name . . . the Gales had always been a maternal-lineage clan. Not correcting the assumption, Wyatt said, "give him this." He reached into the left inside breast pocket of his uniform and pulled out a painted tin horse with a bullet crushed into its flank. "Tell him _'Sawhorse'_ . . ."

She asked, "a child's toy?" Arista took her hand from her throat and carefully took the toy without making skin contact. She studied the small black figurine.

"He's my son," Wyatt said softly.

Arista studied the Tin Man then turned to the bathroom, slipping the toy horse down the front of her gown, between her breasts. Putting her hand to her throat, she looked back at the couple. "Thank you for allowing me to prove myself, Lady DG." She placed the glass down on the back of the sink. Her body began to glow that soft liquid blue light and she shimmered and fluctuated then disappeared up the faucet.

"Whoa!" DG breathed, sounding impressed, eyes wide in amazement.

"What else did you overhear, DG?" Wyatt turned to the younger woman, trying to catch up on what he'd missed while he slept. He wished he felt more rested.

"Right," DG turned. "Leona escaped and he couldn't find Glitch. He knows who we are . . . but he does think you're stupid. He also thinks we're married." After a moment, she said, "he wants a royal kid and he's not particular who the mother is."

Inexplicable rage swept through the man and he clenched his hands, crystal blue eyes narrowing. Softly, voice a near growl, he said, "I'd rather they had no clue who you were." Without looking at her, he stepped over to the other door in the bathroom. Lifting the latch, he opened the door easily, finding the key in the lock. He pocketed the small bit of metal.

She seemed to sense his distress, because DG slid a hand to his shoulder and softly said, "Wyatt, we'll get out of this. I know we will."

He stiffened then sighed and nodded. "Come on. Let's find Glitch . . . and your cousin." He led her into the other bedroom, pocketed the key from that door, and listened carefully. Putting a finger to his lips, he slipped the latch off its hook and eased the door open.

Glancing out, he turned to DG and offered her a grim look. Signaling her to stay close, Wyatt stepped into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	16. Dramatic Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: DG and Wyatt get help and send a message to Jeb. Wyatt recalls getting out of the frozen lake. Arista introduced.

"I am not seriously hurt, my love," Lavender smiled, touching Ahamo's cheek with gentle fingers. "The horse never landed on me."

He smiled, though worry showed in his blue eyes, and the royal consort turned his face to kiss the queen's palm. Every chance he got, he would make love to his wife . . . fifteen annuals separation had been sheer torture. "I still worry, Lavender. The bank you and the horse fell down was no gentle slope."

She nodded gingerly, apparently still sore after several hours. She moved her hand to cover his on the plank table they sat at. Spring green trees spread their leafy shade over the royal couple as they spoke. "After such a long rest, my aches are less."

Ahamo sighed and looked over to the apron-clad couple working not far away. Husband and wife worked side by side in their joint-owned smithy. Close by, but not dangerously so, stood a reasonable sized stable which the pair also operated with their extended family among the small group of homes at the edge of the Vinkus River; their teenaged son had disappeared into a large field to corral fresh horses for the travelers. The queen's mare had been injured shortly before sunrise after throwing a shoe, and the accident had resulted in both horse and rider losing control and sliding down a steep embankment practically into the large Vinkus River.

Clearing her throat, another woman from the tiny community walked over, carrying a tray with filled bowls and cups. She began placing the food in front of the couple seated at the community table, a slight tremble in her aged, work-worn hands.

The royal consort smiled up at the woman. "Thank you. This smells wonderful."

She nodded and answered, "I'm sorry it's this late, but your majesties woke so late . . . those river pods do help the sleep along with the pain." She seemed unaware that she could be considered impolitely babbling.

Lavender smiled and soothed, "this is perfect. Thank you for allowing us to rest in your home, Junia."

Junia looked at the queen and offered a tired smile. "Well, it's not every day we get royal visitors to Vinkus. It's like a breath of fresh air . . . used to watch as the carriages passed to Finnaqua way back when."

"We hope to begin the practice again soon, Junia," Ahamo smiled widely at the older woman. "And we'll be certain to stop here for a change of horses . . ."

"Hmm . . ." the woman made a noise low in her throat but smiled as she placed a plate of fresh bread before the couple. "Good for you that you recalled our little farrier here. Else you'd be walking your journey."

Rich laughter escaped from Ahamo and he nodded, amused and delighted by this honest woman. He touched her sleeve gently and said, "Junia, you are the breath of fresh air."

She laughed in return, throwing her head back, just as merry sounding as the royal consort. "Behave, Your Majesty. Your wife watches us," she flirted lightly.

The younger man grinned over at his wife who smiled in apparent enjoyment of the interaction. It had been so long since they had been among the people without barriers. The time during the witch's coup had been restrictive for many reasons, not least of which was that Ahamo had been banished from the O.Z. as part of Lavender's plan to aid the witch's eventual downfall. As convoluted as the plan had been, it had worked; the second miracle was the people's ready acceptance of his innocence.

Jingling metal work on bridles alerted the trio and they turned to watch a man bring two horses towards the stables. Junia clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Excuse me, Your Majesties. I need to help Dolphus or he'll get the saddles all jumbled. Good with animals, that one. Not so good with leatherwork." The woman didn't wait for their reply, striding off to catch up to her grandson.

Ahamo turned his smile on Lavender, picking up his spoon and taking a few bites of the muglug they'd been served. "I did hear some interesting news while you were being tended by the veterinarian."

Lavender chuckled, withdrawing her hand to retrieve her own spoon and begin her late luncheon. "And what might that be, my love?"

He broke some bread and handed it over to her then broke a hunk for himself to dunk in the rich, thick soup. "There's been a drastic increase in Long Coat activity this past week. A dozen men, a Long Coat among them, approached the Nature Clan checkpoint, but no one's sure if they got in or were turned away." He ate carefully, watching his wife's reaction, though he kept the smile on his face for the benefit of anyone passing by.

"Ah," she softly murmured, also putting on a public smile and continuing her meal, though she moved carefully due to the bruises and cuts she'd received from her accident. "And what news of Leona? Have they spoken of her to you?"

With a slight nod, Ahamo replied, "actually yes. They think she might be joining or encouraging the Long Coats in a bid for the throne. But there is no definite proof. A couple down the road said they thought the Long Coats might only be using her name as clout and that the princess might not even be aware of what's been going on."

His wife sighed, light purple eyes studying her soup as she slowly spooned up some more. Very softly, she asked, "Has anyone said who they support?"

Ahamo placed his hand over Lavender's, drawing her attention to his gently smiling face. "They don't wish to betray you or our daughters, Lavender, but they think she might be good for the kingdom with her strong magic." He gave his wife's hand a gentle squeeze, bringing a soft smile to her face, then scooped up more food. Absently, he added "I don't think they knew who I was until after you came out of the veterinarian's home."

She chuckled again at Ahamo's slight deception.

The sound of excited chatter, followed by several children running past, drew the royal pair's attention to the northern road. Ahamo stood quickly, shock coursing through him at the sight of the couple trudging down the old brick route. A man in simple grey worker's garb and a woman in grey and red traditional dress with a bright yellow sling and hair ribbon came closer. At the sound of Lavender's gasp, Ahamo started running for the pair, worried and frightened by what he saw. "Azkadellia!"

His eldest daughter raised her head and smiled softly at him. Pain seemed to radiate from her eyes and she carried her splinted arm gingerly even in her sling . . . was that silk? As he reached the woman, Ahamo slipped an arm around her as support. "What happened, Az?"

"Azkadellia?" Lavender sounded as worried as Ahamo felt. She rose unsteadily to her feet, but remained where she stood, eyes watching intently.

"The tower fell under attack," Az started explaining once she got close enough to be heard by her mother. "Dylan got me out through the sewer, but I broke my arm." She sighed, glancing over at the resistance fighter. "We thought to seek horses here on our way south."

Ahamo eased Azkadellia onto the plain wooden bench and sank next to her. "Sit, Dylan." He gestured to a seat then at the man he'd only met the evening before. "Someone attacked the tower?"

Dylan nodded, exhaustion mirrored in his eyes. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Long Coats." The new voice came from the edge of the woods where young Jeb Cain stepped from the tree line. A red-haired woman followed bearing an oddly constructed sling-pack. The woman wore a thick metal collar and, surprisingly, men's clothes.

"Jeb?" Ahamo turned his attention to the son of his younger daughter's Tin Man. He noticed the man's royal uniform had become drenched and covered in mud. His fingertips seemed red and raw, and he wore a bedraggled pair of leather work gloves. "What the hell happened?" the royal consort asked, voice dropping to a worried low baritone.

The redhead placed Jeb's sword on the table and helped Jeb to sit on the bench next to Lavender. She then carefully laid her odd burden on the unused part of the long table. The pack moved, but she placed a hand on it and the movement eased.

Jeb sighed, holding his hands carefully away from touching anything. "Long Coats attacked this morning. I believe most of the staff got out. A small group of us made plans to go for help." Jeb looked up, his blue-grey eyes more dazed than pained, though a hint of his suffering laced his every word and movement.

Dylan took up the narrative. "The princess and I are going to talk to the Papay, the Spiritus, and the Sapientiam Clans." He met Ahamo's eyes steadily.

Surprised, Ahamo realized this young man knew of the treaty and most probably the passcodes. The royal consort nodded, his smile lost, as he listened, storing the information for later.

"Father was to get Princess Dorothy out and take her to the Guild Fighters in the east," Jeb added, to the royal couple's relief. "The viewers headed north, and Father mentioned that the nurture units who cared for the princess would go to Milltown." Jeb shifted and the redhead, still standing, frowned down at him, but the young man seemed to ignore her in his effort to give the news. "I was to get to you and let you know what happened so you could carry on to the Nature and Phlogiston Clans. I'm to go to the abandoned Shiz Academy and collect the resistance and await your orders." Finally, his steel-blue eyes closed and his body went slightly limp in a pain and drug induced slump. The redhead caught and supported the resistance leader.

Reaching out, Ahamo jumped when Jeb straightened and shook himself.

"The princess' dog found me when I was leaving the tower, but he fell into a patch of Fireweed." He gestured with his chin towards the odd bundle.

"Fireweed . . ." Horror filled Ahamo at the name; he'd had his own experience with the caustic plant shortly after he'd arrived in the O.Z.; his hands still bore the scars. "Princess' dog?" Carefully, Ahamo peeled back part of the makeshift pack, blue eyes widening in shock at what he found. "Toto!" He looked at Lavender. "It's Toto."

Jeb chuckled, an odd sound in his condition. "Toto? I've been calling him Baxter. Oh," he seemed absent-minded, "this is Mariah. She's been helping us."

The woman nodded at them and touched the metal collar she wore, identical to the one Ahamo saw on Toto.

There was something familiar about the woman, but he couldn't place her face . . . then again, the last time he'd probably seen her she would have been a child . . . if they really had met. He offered her a smile. "Thank you, Mariah."

She nodded then touched the collar again.

Ahamo sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't know much about the medicine collars. Our advisor, Ambrose, developed them to help block magic so the patient could be operated on. There's a type for animals, too, to deliver life-saving medicine during their illness." He shook his head and stood to inspect her collar then frowned further. "But the collar I saw only had two buttons: one to lock or unlock it and the other to deliver medicine. This one has a third button I don't know."

Azkadellia shuddered and looked up. Her voice sounded light but tired. "I'm sorry. The witch took anything she could from Ambrose. If the collar was one of the things stolen, her medicos would have changed it into a torture device. The third button might even administer a deadly dose."

"We will need Ambrose to look it over." Lavender carefully checked over Toto's collar. "Until then, I would suggest that neither of you use magic. The magic-blocking properties might have been corrupted and register as a need for medication regularly rather than upon command." She sat back, a frown on her gentle face.

Jeb shook his head. "I don't know what magic they'd be blocking in a dog . . ."

"Actually, a shape-shifter," Ahamo filled him in. "Toto can change into a man-shape, the princess's magic tutor."

Turning to look over the small dog, Jeb shook his head again. "But he convulsed while on my back. I don't think he'd have been using his magic then."

Dylan suggested "malfunction perhaps? Or a change made during the conversion?"

Lavender sighed and looked around at their bedraggled party. "I can not say this is a good beginning, but I will not change the plans made so far. Ahamo and I will parlay with the Nature Clan and continue on to the Phlogiston Clan." She looked over Jeb then the bundled Toto. "Mariah, could you see that Officer Cain and Toto get to the Academy safely? Once there they can rest and get medical attention."

Mariah nodded again, her expression serious, her whiskey-colored eyes worried.

"If you are feeling able, Azkadellia, you should continue south. Beware of the Papay, their fields lie still in terrible condition and many may see you as a threat." Lavender winced at her own aches.

The young Dolphus came from the stables then and directly to their table. A boy about the same age as Jeb's eighteen annuals, he had less enthusiasm and fire in his eyes. "Got two horses, Majesty," he said. "Looks like you need more." He reached a hand out to lay on Azkadellia's shoulder, smiling in a friendly way.

"Don't touch me!" Az shot to her feet, her voice dropping an octave and sounding very much like the witch-controlled woman of a month before. She stumbled away from the shocked teenager, her eyes wild. "No one touches me!"

Ahamo stepped into her path and she looked up at him. He was stunned by the blind panic in her hazel eyes. "Az?" The father pulled his daughter against him, sliding one hand to the back of her head and pushing her face into his shoulder. "Shhh . . . Daddy has you, baby," he purred low, trying to soothe her fear. His eyes met those of a noticeably worried Dylan, but Ahamo merely shook his head, confused and worried as well.

Rising carefully, Lavender placed a hand on Dolphus' arm. "I apologize, Dolphus," she said carefully. "The witch abused her horribly."

Apparently accepting the odd explanation, the youth nodded and backed up, holding his hands up in clear view for all. "I'm that sorry, Princess . . . right glad she was killed off for hurting you." He glanced over his shoulder, as if looking for safety, and added, "I'll get four more horses now." The teenager turned and ran for the open field.

Lavender turned towards her daughter, unable to help, her frustration evident in her light purple eyes. Softly, her voice hard, she asked, "this goes beyond the witch, my Azkadellia, does it not?"

Az, wrapped in the protective embrace of her father, nodded and lifted her face, tears streaming down her pale skin. "It was Tutor."

A muffled bark came from the bundle on the table, and all eyes turned to the injured shape-shifter. He tried to wriggle his very painful way from the encompassing leather, but Mariah stopped him, her hands gentle on the patient. Toto protested again, whimpering.

"No, not DG's Tutor," Az clarified then her voice dropped, sounding fearful. "My magic tutor . . ."

"Tell me," Ahamo commanded, real anger blazing through him and shining from his eyes. The royal consort very rarely got angry, but he could not tolerate someone hurting his loved ones. He guided Az to sit with him on the bench next to Dylan, directly across from Jeb watching through a medicine induced daze. Meeting eyes so like his own, Ahamo looked directly at the younger woman. "Tell me, Az."

Her voice remained soft, filled with remembered terror. "She would call me stupid and slow. If I asked for help, she would become angry." Az shuddered. "And she often raised her hand to me."

"She dared strike you!" Lavender appeared incensed, hands clutching at the wooden table edge so tightly the skin grew taut and pale.

Az shook her head, turning her attention to her mother. "No, Mother. She never got the chance. Zero would interfere. Sometimes he would call out to her, and other times he would hurt his hand. When she saw the injury she'd get even angrier and attack him."

"Attack her son?" Lavender sounded as horrified as Ahamo felt.

"Yes," Az confirmed. "She start beating him and calling him useless and weak . . . a _real_ zero. She would tell him over and over again that if he didn't have hands, he was a failure and a useless waste. She'd say that no one could do magic without hands." Az sobbed, turning back to her father and leaning into the tall blond man. "Her anger was so frightening, but if I tried to stop her, Zero wouldn't let me." Finally, she fell to quietly sobbing into her father's shoulder.

He wrapped a sturdy arm around her, eyes almost black in his anger. "I swear I will see that woman dead, if it's the last thing I do in this world!"

The others seemed uncomfortable with Az's revelations, especially the royal couple. They had let that woman have annuals of access to their older daughter and had never once suspected she might be terrorizing their child . . . or abusing her own son. Lavender and Ahamo looked straight at one another, but neither spoke as they let Az cry and the two resistance fighters review their own assessments of the princess and her long hated bodyguard.

Slowly, as any of the hamlet's inhabitants avoided the group, Az brought herself under control once more. She wiped her face, though the ravages of her emotional outburst showed in red, puffy eyes and slightly runny nose. Finally, the princess looked up at the group. "I'm sorry I lost control," she said, wiping her nose on a handkerchief her father provided.

Ahamo pulled her back against him and kissed the top of her head gently. "You are safe now, my love." For his daughter's sake, he buried his anger at the long ago magical tutor. Later he would ensure the woman was hunted down and brought to justice for her perverse crimes.

Quietly changing the subject, Lavender spoke up. "Jeb Cain . . . Dylan . . ." she paused. Dylan had never told anyone his full name and the lack showed in the queen's hesitation.

Flushing, the man spoke quietly, "Terrae . . ." He didn't turn to look at Azkadellia, who seemed not to be paying attention as she leaned into her father's embrace.

Gentle surprise lit the queen's eyes, but she merely nodded slowly, painfully. "In gratitude for your duty to our clan and especially to our family, I thank you. You are truly worthy of the title Tin Man. Please, I have nothing to give you to display the honor as yet, but know that you will ever be among our most trusted friends and allies."

Jeb's head snapped up, despite his lethargy. Dylan looked equally surprised at the granting of such a coveted, rare position as Royal Tin Man. Neither man seemed able to answer, but both were apparently aware of their great honor and new responsibility. The serious looks on their faces bespoke the gravity of their acceptance.

Straightening, still keeping his arm around his oldest child, Ahamo added his voice to his royal wife's. "Thank you both for your sacrifices. When we are back together at the Academy, we will make sure you are presented your dues." He smiled at them, though his blue eyes remained serious in light of what he'd learned. "But first, we must ask further duty of you."

Lavender smiled for the small group of conspirators. "Dylan, you will be Princess Azkadellia's personal Tin Man until a time as she is able to choose one for herself. Then you will join Jeb as part of the group of Tin Men assigned to all of the royal family." She rose slowly. "We will celebrate later. Now, we must hurry. The day grows late and we have long to go."

Without giving the men a further chance to respond, the party broke up and began heading their own ways. To spare Az and Dolphus both a second meeting, the two horses already brought over were handed over to the south-bound pair. Ahamo assisted his daughter to mount the horse intended for the queen. Dylan mounted the other horse, and both were shortly on their way.

Jeb, Mariah, and Toto were fortunately provided a cart, which the red-haired woman seemed quite capable of driving, and that trio headed north towards Central City and the abandoned Shiz Academy beyond.

Lastly, the royal couple accepted a pair of fine horses. They silently mounted, Ahamo aiding his injured wife. Still upset over Az's revelations, bothered by the recent attack on the Western Tower, and worried about the implications of Leona's possible bid for the throne, Ahamo and Lavender rode west along the Vinkus River and towards the first checkpoint.

No one saw the shadowy figure who had changed course and begun to follow the queen and her consort towards the Thousand Years Grasslands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	17. Voluntary Prisoners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Lavender is injured. They meet with Az, Dylan, Jeb, Toto, and Mariah. They get help from a small hamlet. Az has a mental breakdown.

Stepping quickly in her stockings, DG followed Wyatt out into the hall and to the steps. She had no problems escaping barefoot; she's often gone without footwear on the farm back in Kansas. As she listened for the sound of guards, she wondered why Randu had missed taking the other room key; didn't he know all married staff had suites? Her eyes widened at the thought that he probably had no idea since he was apparently single and would have had no reason to go to the floors reserved for couples. His lack of knowledge had been to their advantage . . . and showed promisingly weak human failings in the Long Coat commander.

As they made their way down to the next level, Wyatt froze in front of her, hand going out to prevent her from stumbling down the steps. She looked up at him, frowning, but not wanting to draw unwanted attention by speaking. He looked over the rail and she followed suit. A pair of Long Coats stood by the door of the level, talking quietly. A sound came from their hallway and both turned and hurried through the door.

Wyatt looked back at her, his eyes intense, as they always were when he was in his protective mode . . . which was pretty much all the time, in DG's opinion. DG merely nodded at him, signaling that she was ready to continue. He nodded back and turned to lead her down the steps, carefully keeping an eye out for more guards.

They made it to ground level before they encountered anyone else. Rounding the landing, they came upon two people: a woman dressed in tattered, stained clothes and a man with bandages wrapped around his head, trying to keep a robe from sliding off as it was untied and only on one arm.

"Glitch," DG whispered to Wyatt's back and he nodded.

Speaking in a stage whisper, Wyatt said "Glitch! Up Here!"

"Do I know you?" he asked, voice indignant, brown eyes flashing, as he looked up at the pair.

Wyatt rolled his eyes and responded, "Okay . . . Ambrose."

Something seemed to flash in Ambrose's eyes, and he sounded stunned. "Cain!" Suddenly, a look of worry and puzzlement crossed his pale face.

DG stepped around Wyatt and said, "Ambrose, come with us." She made her voice urgent, hoping he would respond.

The advisor blinked and nodded, though he looked confused, and took a shaky step up, the bedraggled woman supporting him. Wyatt shook his head, his voice low as he said "they aren't fit to travel, DG. They'll never get out of here." He quickly sprinted down the steps to wrap a strong arm around Ambrose's other side and almost heaved the patient back up the stairs. "Trust me," he added as Ambrose stiffened in apparent offense.

Worry lit her vivid blue eyes, and DG nodded. "Let's get them back to the suite, Wyatt. We can hide them there." She turned, carefully pulling Wyatt's revolver from the gun belt she still wore.

This time, DG took the lead, watching carefully for any Long Coats. They climbed the four flights back to their suite in tense difficulty, Ambrose practically collapsing once they reached the level, and the woman little better. Fortunately they made it unchallenged. The princess took the unknown woman's arm, receiving a sweet smile in return, and guided her to their suite and in. Wyatt followed quickly with Ambrose and slid him onto the bed.

"Stay here. I'm going to get him some clothes." Wyatt slipped back out of the room.

The young princess nodded in return, holstering the revolver, then turned to Ambrose. DG kept her voice carefully quiet as she tentatively asked "Do you remember me, Ambrose?" Even though she'd seen him just that morning, he looked far paler, weaker than he had in his sleep.

Ambrose blinked and rolled his dark eyes upward, enthusiastically claiming "of course I do . . . you're DG . . ." Instantly, he looked worried. "Why? Did I say something odd?"

"No Glitch . . . uh . . . Ambrose. You're fine." DG smiled widely at the man and hugged him gently. She turned to the unknown woman in grey.

Not letting DG ask, the woman straightened, standing there in her dirty torn clothes, and said "I'm Leona. You're not dead then? Did we bury someone else by accident?"

The younger woman shook her head. "No . . ." She studied her cousin from dirty bare feet to tangled hair. "Uh . . . the coffin was empty. Mother sent me into hiding so the witch thought I was dead." Looking her over again, as the other woman smiled and nodded in apparent understanding, DG frowned. "Let me get you some clothes."

DG turned and hurried into the connecting room, pulling clothes from the armoire. She brought back a matching skirt and blouse of deep maroon with gold trim, leaving out the shaper or stockings but also retrieving underclothes for the older woman.

Delight lit Leona's face and she seemed to vibrate as she carefully took the clothing from DG. Without a word, she carried them into the bathroom, leaving the door open . . . either in a need of protection from the others or forgetting the need for privacy. Leona stripped. Her body was covered practically head to toe in bruises, lashes, and some deep gashes, not the least was the one that had been readily visible on her shoulder. The woman ran hot water into the hipbath in the bathroom, stepped in, and began to bath gingerly.

Suddenly recalling the first time she'd heard her cousin's name mentioned, DG turned and smiled gently at Ambrose. Softly she said "I like your Leona . . ." She hesitated, unsure what to call him after his reaction to the name _'Glitch'_ then his apparent reversion back to the forgetful friend she'd had.

Ambrose groaned softly as if in pain and put a hand to his bandaged head. "Stars forbid . . . she's not _my_ anything, Princess."

"Don't call me that . . ." but DG stopped herself and sighed. "You used to call me _'DG'_ . . . I liked that. But then I used to call you _'Glitch'_."

Surprised and looking a bit troubled, his brown eyes meet her blue. "We did?" After a moment, sudden inspiration lit his face and he eagerly said "my missing eight annuals!"

Before she could confirm his suspicion, the hall door opened and the tall figure of Wyatt walked in. He carried some clothes, a royal uniform among them, though he hanged that up in the armoire immediately. The Tin Man frowned at the pair. "Look, Ambrose, you need to be quieter. I could hear you in the hall, and we've got a battalion of Long Coats out there looking for both of you."

Ambrose narrowed his eyes. Sounding insulted, but speaking lower, he asked "what do you mean?"

"Remember," DG put her hand over his sleeve, watching as he tried to keep the robe from slipping off his shoulder, "the Long Coats invaded. We're prisoners here."

"Prisoners roaming free . . ." Leona sounded amused as she stepped into the room, her long dark hair covered by a towel. She had dressed in the loose blouse and skirt DG provided. "Randu must be livid . . . prisoners are harder to control if they aren't locked up." Leona studied the room, a look of interest on her tanned face, bruising evident now that she had washed away the dirt.

The room contained a delicate looking vanity table and chair next to a dainty looking armoire, almost dwarfed by the bulk of Cain. Seemingly a pale mirror of the connected one, this room's colors were lighter, the furniture more feminine seeming. "This looks unused . . . unusual for the lady's chamber in a suite . . . or is it the infant's room?" The older princess looked at DG.

Not letting DG respond, Wyatt handed a pair of pajamas to Ambrose and turned to Leona. "What do you know of Randu's plans?" He had pitched his voice low, but no one could mistake the urgency in his request.

Leona plopped onto the bed and smiled at the handsome man in the guard uniform. "Are you DG's Tin Man?"

Ambrose answered her, sounding like he felt the answer was obvious, but still remembering to whisper, "of course he is, Leona . . . or . . ." a puzzled look crossed his pale face and he glanced around the lady's room, clutching the patient's robe as it slipped from his shoulder again, "her husband?"

DG opened her mouth to correct the advisor, but Wyatt interrupted too quickly saying, "yes, her Tin Man and her husband, Leona." DG knew he didn't trust as easily as she did; he must be suspicious of Leona's true allegiances.

The blond turned to the other man and practically growled, "come on, Ambrose, let me help you." Surprisingly gentle, but with a steady strength those around him often came to rely on, he helped Ambrose from the bed and guided him into the bathroom. Like Leona before them, despite the lack of privacy, Wyatt left the door open as he cleaned the man.

Noticing his weakness, DG frowned, knowing Ambrose had needed more than a few hours recovery after brain surgery. At least here in the O.Z. there had been magic to help him recover as much as he had. Despite the rapid healing, she knew they wouldn't be able to sneak Ambrose out that day and perhaps not the next. She judged that by the way Wyatt helped so attentively, the Tin Man knew it as well.

After Wyatt helped Ambrose to dress in the pajamas, the Tin Man guided the advisor back to the bed, where Ambrose sat in apparent relief. He turned a sunny smile up at Cain, thanking him softly, apparently at the end of his strength, though his eyes remained bright and interested in his surroundings. He lay down on the mattress.

With only a nod, Wyatt walked into the connecting room and rooted through the armoire, pulling out his fedora. He brought it back and dropped it on the vanity table. "Here, keep this handy to put over your bandages."

DG favored Wyatt with an approving smile, and Wyatt blinked then looked away, frowning. She could tell he didn't think what he did was anything special, but she felt it was a true sign of his friendship with the confused, weakened man. Ambrose would need something to protect and hide his bandages once they made a bid for freedom.

Retrieving the chair from the vanity and bringing it to the bed, DG sat down, watching Ambrose and Leona get comfortable in the full-sized bed, Leona sitting propped against the headboard while Ambrose lay thankfully on the pillows.

Wyatt, apparently not bothered by being left standing, in fact seeming to prefer it, walked to the hall door. He pulled out both keys and compared them to the door. Finally, he locked the hall door and returned to the bedside, placing the key in the fedora for later. "Keep that locked as much as possible so the Long Coats leave you alone. I don't want anyone stumbling in on you while you're resting." He turned his intense crystal blue gaze on DG and sighed. "We'll have to wait until they've recovered further." He dropped the bathroom key into his pocket where it clanked against his closed straight razor.

Springing to her feet in a burst of frustrated energy, DG hurried to the small window over-looking the dry, cracked land below. Turning her back to the desolate view, she leaned against the sill and studied her two best friends and her cousin. Softly, she said, "I only hope Arista can get that message to Jeb."

xxx

Wyatt suppressed the urge to go to DG and comfort her. He could feel her worry from halfway across the room, not just for the injured pair, but for her family and friends out seeking help. Unused to letting his emotions rule him, Wyatt fell back on his strict law enforcement training, turning to interrogate the other princess. "What do you know about Randu's plan, Leona," he asked a second time. Wyatt didn't bother with titles or etiquette: he sensed this woman would be just as dismissive as her cousin about such niceties in the face of danger.

As he had thought, Leona didn't seem to mind. She looked up at him, responding, "he showed up at my home with eleven other men about two or three days ago." She gave a shrug as DG sank onto the chair. "He told me that the people wanted me to rule." Suddenly, Leona straightened, for once looking like the regal princess she was, and spat out angrily, "I refused his absurd idea. He hit me." She carefully pushed her hair away from the ear on the left; a swollen nasty bruise was barely visible among the dark tresses.

Wyatt moved to her side of the bed and gently checked the injury with careful fingers. He'd seen hundreds of domestic violence and assault cases during his time as an officer in the Sin District, before being tapped as a Tin Man. Based on past experience, he determined the severe injury was probably three days old . . . and would definitely have been a heavy enough blow to knock the smaller woman unconscious; fortunately she hadn't bled to death internally . . . though there was still a question of possible brain damage. Anger filled him and Wyatt tamped it down; he finally started believing she, too, was a victim of Randu and not a partner.

The older woman confirmed his unspoken decision by saying, "I woke up in a room near the Kells River. He tried to force me to have sex, but I fought him off by cutting him . . . across the pelvis just above his _'furry bits'_." Her tone sounded so casual, as if she recited a list of books she'd read or plants she'd pruned.

Wyatt clenched his fists, hiding the obvious sign of his anger behind his back; no woman should ever be so used to violence as to sound that casual about her own assault.

DG looked surprised, either by her attitude or by her words, Wyatt couldn't be sure. Ambrose outright flushed bright red, though the Tin Man couldn't tell if it was embarrassment or anger on the part of the royal advisor. For his part, Wyatt attempted to remain stoic looking, letting the woman tell the story her own way without giving off any distressing or distracting signals. He wanted the absolute, if painful, truth.

"I should have just cut the thing off," Leona added, causing Ambrose to wince.

Wyatt merely nodded, mentally storing the information that Randu was injured, possibly quite badly.

Leona sounded frustrated as she added "he took my knife and tied me up . . . I think he slipped something into my food . . . because he'd been feeding me when he attacked."

It was hard to follow her convoluted dissertation, but Wyatt nodded again. "Go on," he said softly, as DG put a hand over her cousin's, earning a smile from the older woman.

Brilliant blue eyes met identical ones as both woman looked at each other. Nodding, as if answering some unspoken question, Leona said, "I passed out . . . I think he was too hurt to do anything." Softly, as if in afterthought, sounding a bit frightened, she repeated, "I think." She looked very troubled.

Just as troubled, Wyatt worried that she could have been raped while drugged unconscious or just after she'd been hit. A man that would lie with a woman who couldn't respond, as if she were just some inanimate object, had no conscience, no soul, in the Tin Man's opinion. That was as bad as a man who took pleasure from hurting a woman.

Leona's tone remained soft, worried, as she continued with her story, a story Wyatt wished had ended long before. "When I woke up this morning he had a battalion with him . . . I peeked out of the cart he had me in . . . under a tarp that smelled of fish of all things." She shuddered and suddenly her face cleared into an odd smile, as if her troubles were forgotten. The lightning-quick attitude change worried Wyatt more than her display of fear; he wondered if somehow the last few days had unhinged the princess above and beyond her possible brain injury.

Meeting Wyatt's eyes, Leona leaned forward a bit, as if just then getting to the crux of the matter. "He asked another man how he could let a bunch of mermaids win a battle with trained soldiers. I didn't hear the rest, but I know that means his troops attacked Aquam Clan . . . and lost so far." She grinned wickedly, "which makes sense because all they have to do is touch someone." Absently, she added, "of course, if the person is magical the Aquam would have to drown them instead, since their ice poison only works on non-magical people."

"One of my collars would knock the magic right out of them," commented Ambrose, sounding bitter after the horrors they'd just heard.

"Collars?" DG prompted, but Ambrose merely looked back at her blankly.

He smiled almost whimsically. "What? Is there something on my shirt? Jacket?" He looked down at the softly striped yellow and blue pajamas he wore, a look of puzzlement coming to his face.

Wyatt rolled his eyes. The surgery might have reunited the advisor's brain, turning him back into the genius he once had been, but now Ambrose glitched in reverse . . . rather than sporadic moments of inspiration, he was having moments of sheer idiocy. Tamping down his own frustration, Wyatt explain to DG, "Magic-suppression collars to aid in surgery on magical people. It blocks them from accidentally doing magic and hurting the surgeons."

Ambrose opened his mouth, clarity coming into his eyes, but Wyatt cut him off, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand: Randu. "So Randu's not just taking over Lux, but Aquam, too."

Leona nodded. "I suspect since he's that ambitious, he'll try for all the clans. He wants to rule them all." She crossed her arms and looked disgruntled, like a child who'd lost her favorite toy. "Might as well just take all the gems while he's at it."

Somehow DG's quick mind had linked the take-over plot with what Randu had said earlier that morning. "So why does he want a baby if he can just take over with force?"

Impressed at her relevant conclusion, Wyatt answered "because he's not stupid . . ." but Ambrose interrupted.

"In case he fails as he did with the Aquam. Once he has a royal child, he'll be able to claim the child needs a guardian to make decisions before it gets old enough to rule on its own behalf . . . so Radmu can claim the right of Royal Consort, in this case as parent not spouse, and effectively take over as ruler."

Unsure whether Ambrose had glitched again concerning their enemy's name, Wyatt turned a sharp look on him. The bandaged man seemed totally unaware of either the error or the Tin Man's scrutiny.

"He can take the kid if he kills the mother," DG added.

Wincing, Wyatt clarified, "he won't need to kill Leona, DG. The father has equal rights to his child and can claim the mother unfit if she delivers out of wedlock."

"What!" incensed, she whirled on him, on the edge of the delicate chair. "How? That's insane? What about _her_ rights?"

Leona touched DG's arm and said harshly, "by purposely denying a baby the rightful father in marriage, she can be considered negligent of a child's well being." At DG's head shake, the older woman added, "of course, if a father refuses to marry a pregnant woman, he is the neglectful one and can be imprisoned for abuse."

Apparently that news came as a shock, too, and DG surged to her feet. "That's . . . insane! What if she was raped?"

Not surprised that this woman raised on the Other Side had trouble with their legal procedures, Wyatt calmly tried to explain. "It's assumed that if she was raped, she'd have gone to the authorities to report the attack. What woman would hide such a horrendous assault?"

Rather than comforting her about their progressive laws, the news seemed to incense DG further. "'And if she's embarrassed or ashamed?"

Crystal blue eyes widening, confused by DG's odd thinking, Wyatt asked, "why would she be if she's a victim? No one faults a woman when a man attacks her . . ."

"What?" To his surprise she advanced on him. "And I thought you knew people, Cain . . . you were a cop! Of course people blame the woman . . . say she asked for it . . ." her voice rose in indignation.

Leona gripped her cousin's arm in an apparent attempt to quiet her. The younger woman merely turned her glare to her cousin. Leona softly said "DG . . . I don't know who raised you, but they lied to you. At least in Lux and Nature Clans, rape is seen as the fault of the attacker, not the victim." The older woman shook her head. "In many clans, I would say. What true barbarians must have raised you, my love . . ."

As DG opened her mouth again, Wyatt quietly interjected, "she's right, DG. In the O.Z. rape is one of the more seriously dealt with crimes . . . with a punishment of imprisonment, forced castration, even death if the victim's a minor. You're not on the Other Side anymore." He shook his head, keeping his tone even, reasonable. "Sounds like they have a screwed up sense of justice," he added, trying to help her see the difference.

Apparently it didn't work. DG snapped her mouth shut, her thoughts chasing through vivid, enraged blue eyes . . . such expressive eyes, in Wyatt's opinion, though he shook off the distraction. After a very long moment in which she studied the Tin Man, she quietly said, "you said Long Coats were known to rape single woman . . . Wyatt. Don't they get punished?"

"They would be," Ambrose jumped in, his voice as bitter as DG's for once," if they weren't protected by the witch . . ." Suddenly he looked surprised, "but, wait, the witch is gone now isn't she?"

Wyatt nodded. "Exactly. The Long Coats will start being punished for any new crimes . . . but that doesn't mean we should take chances that they won't be in power as long as last time and protected from true justice." He met DG's eyes, trying to silently convey why their cover story of a new marriage was so important to her safety.

Apparently, the younger woman had begun to understand. She softly said, "so, if Randu raped Leona," her eyes turned to her cousin, radiating worry and sympathy, "he shouldn't be able to claim the kid, right?"

Wyatt exchanged a look with Ambrose and Leona then sighed and said, "if she claims to have been raped, and if she can prove she's not just saying it to deny him his rights, DG." At the sudden flare of anger in her eyes, he raised a hand. "The accuser always has to prove the crime . . . I'm not sure how the Other Side does things, but in the OZ, the people are assumed innocent until proven guilty."

The explanation didn't seem to appease her, so Leona added "Which is why all good courts have a trusted Viewer or three to read the people involved. The Royal Court also would have a twelve person jury with a member from each clan to hear the charges and counter evidence."

Suddenly DG seemed to accept that their justice system wasn't as corrupt as she had apparently been used to, though Wyatt couldn't figure out why the arrangement of the court would sooth her instead of the actual laws. She crossed her arms and nodded. "Then it should be fine. Randu won't be able to . . ."

"No," Ambrose interrupted quickly, shaking his head then wincing and putting a hand to his bandages. "If Leona was drugged, she won't remember being raped. It'll be assumed legally that if she refutes Randu's claim then the man she recalls having sex with the closest to her conception date is the true father, unless someone gets help from the Papay to read her." He glanced at Leona then back at DG, his voice vibrating slightly in the effort to convey the importance of this law procedure. "The Papay can see into the unconscious physical and pull out the body's memory, much more powerfully than the viewers who deal with mental and emotional memories." He sighed and added, "Or course a viewer would be needed afterwards to read the heart and mental memories, and a Spiritizan is needed to read the infant's genetics and . . ."

"Whoa!" DG's eyes widened looking at the royal advisor. "That takes the cooperation . . ."

"Yes," Leona stated, for the moment sounding lucid and even logical, "practically all the clans will get involved, which is why the Royal Court uses one of each on jury. Parental challenges usually go straight to the Royal Court and get resolved only when all clans cooperate. With war or disharmony, Randu will be able to claim father's rights without much contention."

"Unless Leona voluntarily has sex with someone else as close to the rape as possible. Then the viewers and Papay will pick up that man as the father, and . . ." Ambrose turned widening brown eyes on the woman, though he didn't finish his thoughts.

She smiled cheerfully back at him, as if once more unaware of the magnitude of the discussion and the ramifications of Randu's possible attacks. Wyatt wasn't sure if she was insane, incapacitated, or just idiotic.

"Right," DG said slowly, studying her cousin, her eyes burning with inner fire. Finally, she said, "Okay, I wasn't raised here so I missed out on a lot. The court system makes some sense for this, even if I have trouble believing it. But, can someone explain this magic thing? I don't know which clan does what. Maybe that would make this easier . . ."

The sound of heavy boots in the hall interrupted the conversation and sent both Wyatt and DG hurrying into the other room. Wyatt closed the washroom door behind them. DG slipped onto the bed as Wyatt quickly removed his jacket and tossed it on the dressing table chair. He sat on the bed and began removing his boots. This time, Wyatt planned to make Randu think DG was certainly off limits.

The hall door swung open as the Tin Man worked on his second boot. As suspected Randu stood there, smiling congenially. "Lieutenant . . . _Cain_ ," he stressed the name and Wyatt let himself flush, reaching for his first boot.

"Sir!"

The Long Coat commander laughed lightly. "No, no, Lieutenant, I've given you the day off, remember?" He strode in and placed a large tray of food, enough for two, on the dressing table. Turning, he seemed to notice the gun at DG's waist then raised an eyebrow in apparent amused surprised. "Role playing, my dear Mrs. . . . _Cain_?"

As DG colored up at the implications, Wyatt sighed, knowing the man had already discerned their true identities. They'd gain nothing by letting him call them both _’Cain'_.

"Sir?" Wyatt said, pausing to wait for permission to speak. Randu granted it with a nod, looking back the at Tin Man. Wyatt met his eyes, letting worry show on his normally controlled features.   
"Sir, I should have corrected the mistake earlier. It's Gale, Sir, our wedding was two days ago." He gestured with one hand as if embarrassed. "I'm still new to the . . . uh . . . being married and . . . uh . . . changing my name and . . ." He stammered, hoping to convince the man of his sincerity.

He couldn't be sure how much Randu believed, but the other man nodded, as if accepting the reasonable explanation. "Of course, Lieutenant Gale . . . it is hard to give such control over to a woman."

Wyatt felt DG stiffen beside him and knew he had to stop her from showing her strength and independence. She was far too on edge from the recent revelations to risk speaking. "Yes, Sir. I'm just that glad the queen wanted to thank me for defeating that witch."

"And try to stop people worrying I'd try to take over, or something stupid like that," DG spoke up, once more sounding shy and submissive, despite daring to speak to the general. Apparently, she felt she needed to stand up for herself despite the cover. Her submissive attitude, however, made Wyatt stiffen; he was really beginning to hate the apparently weak personality that normally feisty, independent DG had to assume. He reminded himself that they were protecting more than themselves now: Ambrose and Leona were relying on their ability to continue deceiving this man.

"Don't you want to rule, Princess?" Randu turned his smile on her, hazel eyes watchful . . . almost predatory. Something in his tone sent a shiver of apprehension down Wyatt's spine. Did he suspect?

She shook her head and lowered her eyes as if cowed by such a dominant personality. "No, General." She tangled her fingers together as if feeling overwhelmed and trying to keep calm. "I was raised by farmers. I wouldn't know how to rule anything but a chicken coop."

The shy response was apparently the correct one as Randu threw back his head and let out a loud, grating laugh. "Now I understand, Lieutenant Gale." He continued to chuckle as he headed back to the door.

"Understand, Sir?" Wyatt dared to ask, as if temporarily forgetting his low rank in light of his commanding officer's merriment. Perhaps they could learn something.

"Of course," Randu replied as he let himself out of the room. "Now I understand why you were given the lost princess for wife." He grinned at them and shut the door, the sound of the key locking them in quickly followed by retreating footsteps.

Finally, Wyatt let his stiff back and shoulders relax.

"Asshole . . ." DG swore, drawing Wyatt's surprised eyes to her angry face. She glared at him, and he wasn't sure if she was angry at him or just Randu. "So, is Cain your real last name or was it Adora's?"

Surprised by the sudden direction of her question, he answered automatically, "Adora's name was Rowen when we married."

"So, why do you only have to give in to a woman when you marry the princess? I thought all of Lux was maternal-lineage." She crossed her arms, a look of challenge on her face.

Wyatt sighed and frowned, trying to find a way to explain without setting her off yet again. Finally, he shrugged and said, "Adora wasn't Lux Clan, DG. She was Spiritus Clan. They're paternal-lineage there."

"Oh." The fight seemed to leave her as suddenly as it had come, and he watched her get up and go over to the tray, checking on their supper.

Wyatt took off his other boot and followed her, the big man quiet on stocking feet. "We'll need to ration. Half of that will need to go to Ambrose and Leona," he said softly, though he had a feeling she had already been planning such a split of food.

She nodded and picked up the heavy tray. "Of course." When he reached to help her, she turned away from him. "Get the doors?"

With a sigh, unsure just what was bothering DG and how to fix it, Wyatt did as she asked, accompanying her into the other room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	18. Food for Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: DG and Wyatt rescue Ambrose and Leona and hide the pair. Leona tells Randu's plans. DG loses her temper.

As the couple entered the lady's room, Ambrose studied them carefully. He hadn't missed their conversation despite the closed doors; even as Princess Dorothy had changed her voice to sound meek, she still had been clearly audible. he thought absently, then flushed at the idea that she had offered to _'fix'_ him at all.

After DG put the tray on the bed and sat next to Ambrose, Leona still on his other side, the bed felt very crowded but in a surprisingly cozy way, though he was glad that Wyatt took the chair instead of joining them on the bed.

Reaching for one of the spoons, DG firmly demanded, "the magic information. I need to know. And," she lifted snapping blue eyes to meet Wyatt's serious gaze, "lineage preferences, if you know them." It seemed an odd request, but no one protested as the princess sounded like she barely contained her anger.

Ambrose looked at her, suddenly realizing that he must have forgotten quite a bit in the last eight annuals. He should have remembered the princess had been married off to her bodyguard, an unusual but certainly not unheard of practice . . . the queen had married an unknown visitor with nothing at all to recommend him, at least marrying a personal bodyguard made more sense.

"Ambrose," Wyatt's low baritone drew the advisor's attention back to the group and he smiled at them, feeling sheepish at how easily his concentration wandered. "Yes, clan magic," he said. Taking a small piece of bread and using it to scoop up some stew, he began to explain.

"Well, there were twelve clans once, with eleven ruling the different areas or realms of the Outer Zone, and each clan name has something to do with their magic ability." He ate the bread then reached for more, smiling as the others began their meal, Leona and DG using the spoons and Cain using chunks of bread like him. He ignored his own shaking hands, too hungry to rest yet, and too fascinated by the history lesson he was giving. "The twelfth clan is Lux . . . ruled by the Gales. The Lux Clan is maternal," he nodded to DG, "and rules over the entire O.Z. with palaces in each clan territory which, until the witch's coup, the Gales would visit regularly to hear petitions, arbitrate problems, and head the Royal Court."

"Okay, so Mom rules everything." DG frowned and reached for some bread as she spooned up more stew from the bowl she shared with Wyatt. "I should have guessed, though I thought we ruled Central City."

"That was the Mystic Man," Wyatt said, his look alerting Ambrose to the great man's demise.  
DG nodded, looking sad before adding, "and we use Light Magic."

At Ambrose's nod, DG added "And the witch used Dark Magic."

"No," Ambrose corrected. "Despite being Tenebris Clan, she was using a very twisted translation of Death Magic, not Dark Magic. Technically, it wasn't even pure Death Magic." He tilted his head thoughtfully then added, "some members can cross over and use other clan magic. It's rare, but possible, but without strict training, the results are often convoluted. Dark Magic involves using the night and other dark spots to power you. It involves easing the light or sometimes extinguishing it, but not permanently. Also, as mobats are darkness creatures, it involves controlling them and other night creatures. Tenebris is a maternal clan, though there're few that will admit they're part of that clan right now."

Wyatt and Leona seemed content to merely eat, not interrupting the lesson DG should have received when she'd reached fourteen and started training to rule either Lux or Nature Clan, based on the results of the treaty.

Taking another bite of bread and stew, Ambrose reached for one of the glasses of apple juice they'd been provided. He paused and offered it to Leona who made a face and shook her head. DG also refused it, so Ambrose nodded and took a sip, smiling. He had always loved apples.

"Nature Clan is paternal. They control plants specifically, though if powerful enough past Nature sorcerers have moved rocks or earth, too," The royal advisor smiled as DG met his eyes, looking impressed at the power other clans potentially had. "When we were cut off from the Nature Clan, the papays' fields experienced drought so severe they lost their orchards and farms."

Her shoulders stiffened. "Oh! That's what happened!"

He nodded. 'You've seen the wasted fields then?" At DG's and Wyatt's odd stares, he realized he'd forgotten something they considered important. Frustrated with his handicap, he swallowed another bite and said, "Aquam Clan is maternal and use Ice and Water Magic." He determined to really have a good think about what he'd forgotten, when he had more leisure time. "They live in the frozen lakes up north and in Mount Runcible."

"I've met Arista," DG filled in. "She said she knew you."

Ambrose laughed. "Arista? That girl was such a little hellion! If you weren't causing mischief, she was!"

DG smiled. By now her anger had apparently dissipated or at least was in firm check.

Encouraged, Ambrose added, "but she showed as much promise as her older sister, Lady Rimi, ruler of the clan. Rimi is one of the greatest physical healers of living memory . . . as skilled as Raw in mental healing." Confusion suddenly overcame the advisor and he puzzled over his own comment. "Who's Raw?"

With a sigh, DG sounded patient as she said "the royal viewer. Don't you remember meeting him?"

Ambrose began to nod, mouth forming a 'yes' then sighed and honestly said "no", shaking his head in the negative. "I've lost more than just half my brain . . ."

"No. It's been returned . . . you had the surgery last night to put your brain back," DG informed him, studying his pale face.

"I did?" Ambrose felt pure shock at the revelation that not only had he survived on half a brain for eight annuals, but that he'd lived through the never-before-performed restoration surgery. Of course, he might have simply forgotten that the dangerous operation had been performed hundreds of times.

Tone gentle, DG prompted "the clan magic, Ambrose?"

Nodding, glad to latch onto such an academic subject, the advisor said, "of course, DG. Cogitatio Clan is neither paternal nor maternal. Anyone can rule, and they choose whichever line they wish to follow. Of course, that's the mechanical clan . . . full of living machines with self-awareness and conscious thought. They use Mental Magic and are some of the top inventors and mechanics in the O.Z., though their center of ruling, Milltown, was one of the most fertile areas in all the O.Z." He smiled as DG opened her mouth, shaking his head to cut her off. "No, not me. I'm pure gillikenese."

Fine blue eyes flashed in amusement and DG reached for an apple from the tray.

"You're familiar with viewers, another either-lineage clan?" Ambrose asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. You explained that they can see with the heart, and I've seen Raw heal Wyatt's leg before." She looked at Ambrose. "He helped with your surgery, too."

"Did he?" Intrigued, Ambrose wanted more than ever to remember this feline-man he'd forgotten. "They're clan is called Corde. They practice Heart Magic." He smiled at the princess. "Next would be the Fortitude Clan, the Munchkin Guilds, paternal lineage if ever there was one. The females are rarely allowed out of the villages, in fact, and are fiercely protected and . . . limited." Before DG could interrupt, Ambrose hurriedly said, "they use Strength Magic, but it's a very rare trait among them. Most munchkins don't have any magic at all. Only the most magical males rule them. Magical females are prized as spouses."

"Right," Wyatt finally jumped in, offering the other apple to Leona, who took it with a bright smile. "The rest of them base their rank on tests of physical prowess."

DG looked at the blond man, her eyes worried. "Do they really flay people alive?"

"Yes," came the reply not only from Wyatt but Leona and Ambrose. Only someone totally unfamiliar with the O.Z. could have asked such a thing. The royal advisor added, "the days of the Lollipop Guild are long over, DG."

She mouthed the words _'Lollipop Guild'_ as he continued the lesson she'd demanded. "Papay Clan doesn't follow either lineage, nor do they even have any known pairings. They simply mate with the one they choose that season and switch off if they wish the next." At her apparent interest, he shrugged. "The Papay practice Dream Magic, and only the females can use it from what we've gathered. It's hard to understand entomological behavior. They seem to be able to communicate without words, and over vast distances."

"Wow," DG interrupted, "they're bugs? I saw them, but I was too scared to really notice." Standing carefully to walk into the water closet, retrieving the glass there and filling it with water, she drank the entire thing. After refilling it, she brought it back to the bed and offered it to her cousin, who smiled and accepted the glass. _’We're too limited to worry too much about germs,’_ Ambrose thought with a grimace. DG went on to say, "you already said they could read unconscious memories."

"I did?" Ambrose frowned, wondering why he felt he knew that. Suddenly, a most recent memory, of the four of them discussing Leona, came to him and he nodded, grimly. "Well, that covers eight of the clans," he informed her, pleased he'd still been able to keep mental count. The idea of two brain surgeries worried him more than he wanted the others to know.

"Phlogiston Clan lives in the desert surrounding the rest of the O.Z. They deal with Heat Magic." Ambrose broke off when he noticed Wyatt looking away, towards the hall door. Not hearing anything from the other side of the door, Ambrose nonetheless whispered. "Cain . . . uh . . . Wyatt?" he corrected himself, still uncomfortable with the idea of referring to the other man as _'Gale'_.

Wyatt looked at him, his face unreadable, his eyes distant, as if he'd shut down any emotions. "Yeah?"

The royal advisor frowned, brown eyes worried. "Um . . . you have a problem with the 'Fire' Clan?"

"No," the larger blond man replied, his tone a warning not to pry.

Not fully understanding, and not liking the confusion at all, the genius turned back to DG. "Uh . . . Heat and Fire Magic, though it's not certain how many are even magical let alone able to control fire. The Phlogiston Clan is extremely private and don't really interact with the rest of the O.Z." He finished his juice and put the empty cup next to the empty bowl he'd shared with Leona. "They're paternal. Next to the Guilds, the Fire People, as most of the O.Z. call them, are supposed to be the most anti-social."

Mild surprise lit DG's face as she removed the tray from the bed. Wyatt took it from her silently and carried it to the other room, and she turned back to Ambrose. "Arista pretty much said that." Sliding onto the bed once more, the princess added, "and that leaves three. Arista mentioned the Unwanted . . ."

"Sapientiam Clan," the advisor gladly filled in. "They started as a group of underground people, and no one recalls which lineage they followed. About five hundred annuals ago, they were flooded with refugees from the witch's first attack. Various random people from all the clans went there for protection. Over the annuals, they've become infused with the rejects of the O.Z. Criminals and unsavory types are said to be down there."

Wyatt came back but stayed in the doorway. He seemed impatient but remained silent, frowning.

Nervous suddenly, Ambrose said, "the survivors of the original clan would use Wisdom Magic, but no outsider has ever been able to figure out what that means precisely. I'm not even sure anyone remains from the original clan . . . Wisdom Magic might be lost permanently to the O.Z."

Leona sighed in an apparent echo of his sentiments. "With the fall of Sapientiam, the powers would unbalance. There must be one left."

DG frowned. "But with Tenebris and Mortem gone, isn't the power already unbalanced?"

"You know about Mortem?" Ambrose asked quickly, surprised.

At the same time, Leona laughed softly. "Of course they aren't lost. Your sister can do Dark Magic, and there are survivors of Tenebris Clan who can still control Darkness, too." She leaned over to her cousin as if imparting a great secret, "and there is definitely one Mortem Clan magician left."

Ambrose flushed.

DG was quick, he could tell, because she immediately turned to him "You! You're from Mortem Clan, Ambrose, aren't you?" Her quiet accusation brought Wyatt's intense attention.

"Uh . . ." Ambrose temporized then asked weakly, "what gives you that idea?" He couldn't meet her intense blue gaze, instead turning his own brown eyes on the princess' husband. Wyatt watched him with crystal colored eyes that seemed to see right into him, and the advisor flushed.

"Az said you were taught at Shiz Academy before it shut down and Mortem Clan joined Lux Clan."

Reluctantly, Ambrose nodded his agreement." Yes, but so was Leona and Lavender!" At the younger woman's direct look, he caved in and lowered his voice. "Yes, I'm from Mortem Clan. We're a paternal lineage clan and we practice Death Magic."

"Death Magic!" DG straightened, a look of horror on her young face.

He shook his head. "It's not what you think, DG. It's not what most people think, actually. Remember what I said about the witch twisting it? Death Magic is actually the guiding of death into rebirth, not final death." He sighed. "It's about releasing the spirit trapped in something dead or dying and helping it be reborn into something new and fresh and alive. The witch corrupted it!" He shook his head. Before DG could interrupt his defense, he added "It involves time, too: manipulating, traveling . . ."

"What? You can go back and forth through time? You can change things or stop them?" DG looked stunned and impressed. "Why didn't you . . ."

"No! DG, time travel is not like that at all. No one can change what's been done. And everyone has control over his own destiny, nothing is set in permanence." He shook his head. "This was the reason Mortem Clan opened educational centers, so different clans could share knowledge so these misunderstandings wouldn't happen anymore." He felt all the frustration and loss he'd experienced when the House of Shiz had been overwhelmed. Softly, he clarified, "Death Magic allows us to see the past by leaving our consciousness and witnessing it as if we are there, but not interfere with it. Only the truly powerful can use it to see what might happen. Viewers can use this to some extent, but it's not easy for them and it hurts a lot for them to try to view the future. The best result of time travel is when a Death Mage works with a viewer to display what the mage sees, because viewers can show what they see using a reflective surface."

"The magic mirror!" DG breathed in, but Ambrose only felt confused by her words.

"Magic mirror?" a flash of a freezing cold room and a dresser mirror showing a child's death blended into a dark one room cabin with a dresser mirror showing a frantic conversation between himself and the queen. He shook the confusing memories away. "Really, DG, it's hard to translate the ideas into the gillikenese tongue. The Mystic Man was one of the few men who had no trouble using Death Magic." He touched his bandaged head; his headache had returned with a vengeance, and he actually found he longed for the IV pain medicine he'd so willingly left behind.

DG looked over at Wyatt. "The Mystic Man was from Mortem Clan?"

The Tin Man nodded, sounding forbidding. "Yes, and he was one of the first people the witch attacked, right after your mother." He shook his head as DG opened her mouth to ask another question. Curtly, he said "Spiritus Clan uses Life and Breath Magic . . . Air Magic." He pulled out his key to their room. "I'm going to get you some medicine from that box in the hall, Ambrose, Leona." He apparently referred to the medical kit that was maintained on each level. Wyatt passed the water closet key to DG. "Lock the washroom doors, both of them, and tell Randu I'm in there, if he comes back and hasn't found me." He didn't clarify how he could be overlooked raiding the hall medical kit. "Wait in our room." Before they could stop him, the Tin Man left the room, locking the hall door behind him.

DG glared at the closed door for a long moment then sight. "Fine," she sounded angry. "Let me know when he gets back," she commanded before obeying the blond's order and leaving, locking the doors as she went.

"A wonderful match, I'd say," Leona said, smiling after her cousin.

She looked at Ambrose and he groaned, lying back in the bed, hand slipping over his eyes as he closed them. "Thankfully they're already married so you can stop plotting to interfere there," he snapped, groaning as she laughed above him.

The hall door opening distracted Ambrose from responding and he uncovered his eyes, relieved to see Wyatt bringing in a small pill bottle marked "River Pods". He gladly took the narcotic, along with the water Leona offered him, swallowing it. He noticed Leona take half a pill but didn't comment; she knew her own pain and tolerance levels, he was sure. Lying down once more and closing his eyes, Ambrose waited with almost eager anticipation for that drifting, painless stupor the heavy pain medicine would bring him.

He listened as Wyatt crossed to the water closet door, tossing the pill bottle into the fedora as he passed and calling softly to DG to let him in. She responded quickly enough, probably had been just outside her side of the small room. Wyatt left but only locked the one connecting door between his room and the water closet, leaving free access for Ambrose and Leona to use the facility at will. He and DG would be required to use their key every time they wanted to get in.

The pain finally began to recede and Ambrose sighed in relief, enjoying the drifting lethargy. A kiss on his lips forced him to open his eyes in confusion. Leona leaned over him with a playful smile.

To his unspoken question, she laughed softly and whispered, "I suppose I can fix you tomorrow. Rest well, my Ambrose." She settled next to him, wrapping one arm around his waist.

Too tired to protest, and secretly rather pleased with the contact, Ambrose closed his eyes and let himself drift into a drug-induced sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	19. Danger in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Over a meal, Ambrose answers DG's questions about magic in the O.Z.

During the hours of slow trundling it took to arrive at Central City, Jeb slept in the back of the cart, Toto curled next to him in his makeshift pack. No one stopped the small wooden vehicle with its apparently human cargo nor the oddly dressed woman who drove it. Thus, the leader of the resistance remained undisturbed in his drug-induced slumber.

Once they pulled up to the city gates, the eighteen annual old man awoke; he'd noticed the absence of the lumbering movement of their borrowed cart.

"Mariah?" Awkwardly, Jeb pumped his arms in the air to lever himself up without using his acid-burned hands. His thoughts jumbled in fuzzy confusion as he stared up at the immense city, faded green on every surface. He blinked in dazed astonishment; Jeb had never visited Central City in his life, even when his father worked there as first a police officer then the Mystic Man's Tin Man.

Naturally, with the anti-magical collar she wore, Mariah didn't answer Jeb's question. He wondered if she was mute without it, too.

"We can go around," he suggested, unsure why she'd stopped but hesitant to enter the metropolis. He focused carefully and noted that a pair of Long Coats, heavily armed, stood checking identification at the entrance . . . just like they'd done practically his entire life . . . they must have retaken the city when they'd taken the tower. Jeb didn't know about Mariah, but he certainly didn't have a passbook to get into Central City.

Leaning closer, careful not to bang his hands, he whispered, "we'll have to ditch the cart and go around on horseback."

She turned her head to study him with serious liquid amber eyes.

After several long minutes, she turned her ring around on her finger to hide the gemstone, making it appear to be a simple silver band. She flicked the reins and the pair of horses trod sedately toward the guards. They were next in line. Jeb climbed carefully onto the driver's seat to Mariah's left, balancing carefully to avoid using his hands, his mind sluggishly looking for a way to convince her to avoid the city . . . or a way to get them past the guards.

Then it was their turn, the automobile before them pulling through, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

One Long Coat waved to them in a desultory way. "Come on. Passbooks out . . ."

Rather than obeying the man, Mariah suddenly leaned over, slipping her left hand to Jeb's cheek, tilted her head, and sealed her lips over Jeb's.

Steel-blue eyes widening in total shock, the young Tin Man began to pull away, but Mariah let go of the reins and cupped his other cheek, keeping him still. She held his face as she explored his mouth with her own. Unsure why his companion had chosen to kiss him, especially as they were being challenged at Central City's gates, he decided to let her have her way and began kissing her back.

The young resistance leader wasn't used to close emotional or physical encounters with women; he'd been too busy fighting since puberty to let such a distraction happen. He definitely couldn't say the building sensations were unpleasant, just confusing and very new. Too soon she pulled away and gave him a smile, her eyes crinkling up at the corners as her liquid-amber eyes shone in apparent delight. Startled, Jeb realized he'd not seen Mariah smile before.

"Uh . . ." he cleared his throat and tried again, "Mari . . ."

"Honeymoon, officer?" an amused male voice interrupted Jeb and he turned confused grey-blue eyes to the Long Coat. The other man looked as amused as he sounded, apparently not registering Mariah's simple braid in the increasing darkness, but he didn't wait for an answer. Instead he chuckled. "Been a long time since this was the place to go for romantic getaways," he winked and waved them towards the city. "Enjoy yourselves. You won't have enough time."

Mariah kissed Jeb softly again and turned back to the horses. She continued smiling in that dreamy fashion as she flicked the reins, not giving the Long Coat a chance to change his mind about checking identification. Once inside, the woman's smile fell away and she guided their decidedly provincial rig among sleek automobiles and fancy carriages, avoiding foot traffic as they went.

Jeb studied her for a long moment before her actions made sense to his drug-fogged brain. He shook his head with a slightly rueful quirk of his lips, flushing lightly at his own reaction to her.   
"Distraction . . . clever . . ."

She nodded once, glancing at him, then looked forward once more.

Jeb nodded in return and began looking around them, trying to organize his thoughts and slow his racing pulse: definitely a distraction he didn't need.

The large buildings, early evening crowds, and rapidly moving vehicles almost overwhelmed the rural-bred man. Taking a steadying breath, Jeb gingerly balanced his elbows on his knees, his hands beginning to throb as the pain medicine started to wear off. Fortunately Mariah knew how to keep the horses to a steady pace in the confusing traffic. He didn't distract her concentration with unnecessary commentary.

They had driven for some times, past brilliantly lit buildings, before Jeb finally said "Are you comfortable driving to . . . our destination in the dark or should we look for somewhere to spend the night?"

Mariah glanced at him, her whiskey-colored eyes studying him carefully before she looked back at the thoroughfare.

He sighed, recalling that she couldn't talk. Trying again, he asked "should we try to go on?"

Again she looked at him, but this time she nodded in answer. She turned slightly, glancing into the cart bed, and Jeb recalled the injured dog.

He frowned and turned to see the make-shift bundle. The lights of the vast city made the dusk bright as day, and the resistance leader could see the slow rise and fall of the cloth, indicating that Toto slept on. As he turned back around on the driver's bench, he studied the crowd, the lights, and the buildings. Even at night the noise seemed overwhelming, the people unfathomable in their nocturnal pursuits. Jeb sighed: one piece of behavior worried him more than anything else in the blur of color and noise.

Softly he asked "why would that Long Coat let a royal guard into the city . . . even if we really were coming for a honeymoon?"

Mariah look at him, her liquid amber gaze as troubled as he felt.

So, she wasn't oblivious to the odd behavior or their danger. Her ruse had gotten them in, but she had knowingly been taking an extreme gamble.

Jeb nodded as if she'd answered his question out loud. "Right," he said slowly. "I think the guard may have been told to carry on business as usual and hasn't received the news yet . . ." He looked sideways at his companion then added, "maybe," on a sigh.

She shook her head in apparent disagreement.

Suddenly irritated at her inability to communicate, Jeb gripped the seat as they rounded a bend. A cry of sheer agony ripped from his lips, drawing curious looks from several pedestrians. He curled his hands protectively near his body, hunching over to vomit over the side onto the busy street, unaware of the incredulous and disgusted reactions from the crowd.

The redhead pulled the cart expertly to the side, blocking in a rather large and showy automobile. She immediately slid her arms around the blond's waist, holding him in position while he retched. Reaching into a pocket on her vest, she pulled out several small, slightly bruised, river pod seeds and popped them in her own mouth to chew quickly.

As the spasm subsided, Jeb leaned weakly against the woman, panting, raising tortured eyes to see astonished faces below. One slightly familiar, if unidentifiable, man climbed into the back of the cart and carefully made his way past the still sleeping Toto to grip the seat rail. He opened a brand new bottle of deep, dark colored liquid and said loudly "another drink to take the edge off, Lieutenant?"

Jeb looked at him and helplessly opened his mouth, unable to take or refuse the alcohol with his tortured hands.

With a nod, the stranger leaned close and poured some into the younger man's mouth. Very quietly he instructed, "don't swallow, Sir, just rinse and spit and call it a foul brew."

Confusion filled Jeb's blue-grey eyes but he did as the man instructed, letting the rather rich brandy roll around his mouth. He spit it out and in a weak voice claimed "a foul brew, Sir!"

The man grinned and raised his expensive decanture high, looking around and claiming "Aye, and a toast to you and your bride, Lieutenant!" He swung off his evening cloak and draped it around Jeb's shoulders like some sort of trophy.

As if on cue, Mariah gripped Jeb's face and turned his head, sealing her mouth over his. The crowd let out a cheer as she tilted her head to seal their mouths. Opening her lips, her tongue touched the seam of his mouth, inviting him to join in the intimate kiss.

In answer, Jeb opened his mouth, confused but recalling the way they'd gotten past the checkpoint. He also found that he enjoyed the soft press of her unexpected kiss. A bitter taste permeated his mouth and he felt her push a pulpy mass beyond his teeth. He groaned in protest and pulled back amid enthusiastic cheers and raucous comments shouted from the crowd.

He finished chewing the medicine and swallowed. Instantly he felt the narcotic rush of lethargy and pain relief: this dose had been more than the original she'd fed him at zenith.

The stranger in the back of the cart led the cheers but, between hurrahs, said in a low whisper "drive on, Lady, and don't stop until you've gotten clear of this city. And hide that uniform if you value his life." He stood, took a long drink from his bottle, and raised it again, calling loudly "romance and sex in the capitol!" The man jumped from the cart amid laughter and catcalls then waved them off.

Mariah obediently pulled back into the flow of traffic without looking back, though her face had once more lit in that alluring smile.

Jeb barely registered the expression, finally recalling who the man had been: the brother of his former resistance commander, and the man who had insisted to the others that the over-zealous Jeb Cain had been the best man to lead them at their former leader's demise. Groaning softly, Jeb tried to fight the lethargy the medicine brought with it. "Mari . . ."

She pulled over at once, turned, and wrestled him into the cart bed next to Toto. Tucking the cloak over his tell-a-tale, if long damaged uniform, the woman slid back onto the driver's seat and kicked up the horses, pulling back into traffic without a backwards glance. Jeb sighed and gave into sleep, trusting she could get them safely to Shiz Academy and his gathering fighters.

xxx

From the shadows of the clock tower, Raw watched as a two-horse farm cart drove up to the closed gates of the old university. His dark brown eyes took in the lone figure sitting on the driver's bench. Stepping away from the five story building, Raw studied the resistance guards as they spoke quietly to the driver then headed around to the bed of the cart. One of the guards pulled back some cloth and jumped as if shocked. The other guard turned and hurried to the front of the wagon, fumbled the gates open, and waved the driver through.

Nodding, Raw left the shadow of the tower completely and cut across the old, decrepit campus to meet the incoming wagon with the apparent victim. As the only person there that night able to heal, he would be needed. The viewer wondered briefly if he should wake Kalm to use this moment for teaching.

With a nod, he ran off to get the twelve annual old viewer. This was an important lesson for the coming battles.

Inside the main dormitory, Raw hurried to the first large open bay sleeping area of males. The two pallets closest to the door had been assigned the pair of viewers for the night. Reaching over, Raw gripped Kalm's shoulder firmly and gave the boy a shake. Brown eyes shot open and the boy whimpered, not fully awake and apparently lost in the nightmare of his long-term imprisonment from the witch's reign.

"Kalm, come." Raw didn't explain; their people used little words to express themselves. Viewers communicated through deeds and the heart. He gently wrapped a strong hand around the boy's arm and helped him to stand, simultaneously sending the frightened child soothing images and feelings of love.

Without a word, Kalm nodded, his eyes growing calmer, his fear disappearing. He accompanied the older viewer willingly, not asking why Raw had chosen to awaken him just after midnight.

Leading Kalm into the smaller one-story building set up for administration and a temporary infirmary as the resistance fixed the larger edifices, Raw nodded to the guard standing watch at the door. The man waved them in, and Raw paused in the entryway, sniffing lightly at the air. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of human sweat, alcohol, vomit, and the bitter river pods often used as a strong narcotic, Raw guided Kalm down the echoing hall and into a well-lit office with two raised pallets.

On the bedding to the right of the door laid the almost unrecognizable figure of Toto in his dog form, fur and skin peeled off leaving great raw patches. The small canine also had an odd heavy, smooth collar locked around his neck. An older woman with steel grey bun and colorful skirts tended him with strips of linen dipped in river-pod ointment.

The left-hand pallet contained the unconscious form of Jeb Cain, pale with sweat-drenched blond hair and dark smudges around his eyes and across his cheekbones. His hands looked like raw meat, much as Toto's body did. Beside him sat a young, red-haired woman in trousers, vest, and similar collar to Toto's, also using medicine-soaked linens to wrap the wounds.

Raw turned to Kalm and gestured towards the dog, whose acid burns were far more life-threatening than the resistance leader's. He led the boy to that bed and squatted down, ignoring the chair offered by the startled older woman. Kalm sank to his haunches, turning wide eyes to his mentor. Raw took some of the treated linens and began to massage them through his hands, letting his magic flow into the bandages. Carefully, with one hand, he reached over and guided Kalm's hands to join his on the linen, letting Kalm know what to do through their connection.

As they worked, Raw slowly brought their joined hands, clutching the bandages, over the magical dog's ravaged body. Lowering their hands, expecting to wrap the poor canine in warmth and healing love, Raw instead felt a ripping, burning pain shoot up his hands and straight to his heart. He screamed out, falling into convulsions on the hard cement floor, vaguely aware that Kalm, too, reacted violently to the soul-searing pain from that unnatural mechanical abomination choking the poor animal.

Raw's next conscious thought was when a mass of ice cold water poured over him followed immediately by a soft kiss to his lips. Opening confused, pain-filled brown eyes, he felt this woman's spirit, her light and laughter. He blinked as the unknown woman with the violet-black hair and completely white eyes shifted to kiss Kalm, also soaked from a tossed bucket of water. The redhead stood there, gripping an empty wash bucket, the nearby wash basin empty and discarded at her feet. Raw blinked up at the pair of women, trying to catch his breath; the pain had been far worse than any energy prod the witch's torturers had used on him.

The dark-haired woman reached over and took the pitcher of fresh water that still sat untouched on Toto's night stand. She placed the pitcher on the floor next to Jeb's bed and shoved one hand into it. Looking to Raw, her free hand lightly covering her own throat, a liquid blue light formed under her fingers where skin touched skin. Her voice echoed softly as she said "those collars seem to reverse and twist magic."

The middle-aged viewer nodded, exhaustion pouring through him much as the washbasin's load had covered him and soaked his furs. He lay there, sliding a hand to touch Kalm's, linking fingers of comfort with the child's trembling ones. Silently, fascinated by this woman, he watched as he was privileged to see an Aquam healing someone; having never met an Aquam, Raw had never seen their specialized method of healing.

Keeping one hand totally immersed in the cold water, the woman leaned over Jeb's unconscious form. She slid one hand to cup his cheek and slanted her blue-tinted lips over his. That liquid light began at their lips and her hand then slowly spread down his body. Glowing softly from most of his body, the blue intensified as it reached and covered his injured hands. Mere seconds passed before the glow faded and the woman sat up, her body trembling, her eyes drooping.  
Raw sat up gingerly and reached out to catch her just as she fell into a slump.

Her hand had not yet left the watcher pitcher so she put her free hand to her throat and said, "drugged. I should have known." She yawned and curled against Raw's damp fur, collapsing into his surprised embrace. "Arista," she murmured then let go of her throat, her other hand slipping from the water.

Quickly, the red-haired stranger knocked the nightstand next to her, gaining their attention. She gestured towards the old hipbath stored there in case someone needed major cleaning when injured. She pointed to the unconscious Aquam then back to the tub.

Without a word, Raw nodded and scooped up the lady in his still trembling arms. He stumbled to the bath and placed her gently into the empty wooden vessel. Raw looked to the redhead who gestured to the water pitcher and then the bath. Understanding, Raw pour the water over the woman then went for more: Aquams needed to live under the water; this woman would sleep, and even breath better, under water.

Kalm and the older woman caught on quickly, grabbed the bucket and washbasin, and joined in retrieving water for their erstwhile guest and healer.

Finally, when the tub was filled almost to overflowing and the Aquam had slipped comfortably below the water's surface, Raw turned to the red-headed stranger once more. She nodded, her expression serious, as she leaned against the wall and shut her eyes, still situated next to Jeb's bed. The now healed resistance leader slept on unawares while the grey-haired woman began to bandage the very injured canine. Raw sighed and turned his eyes to the slumped figure of Kalm.

Nodding to himself, the viewer scooped up his ward and carried him from the infirmary and back to bed. He knew there would be much to occupy them in the morning, not the least their continued travel to the lands of their people. Raw welcomed the comfort of the simple pallet, falling to sleep quickly as his mind revolved with all he had seen and would see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	20. News Most Disturbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Jeb and Mariah have to sneak through Central City and get closer than Jeb expected. Raw and Kalm try to heal Toto and get injured. Arista heals Jeb.

Troubled, Lavender scanned the horizon: acres of spring grasses mixed with the dried, brown of the previous cold season. Patches of muddy snow still littered the vast fields. An occasional animal burrow could be discerned in the mucky, treacherous ground. Come summer the Thousand Years Grasslands would be a sea of undulating green blown by hot breezes. The vast, stark loneliness of the plains didn't bother the queen; the ease with which she and her consort entered through the border did.

Easing around in her saddle, her body stiff from long hours on a horse and her late night fall hours before. She met her husband's eyes and offered him a small frown, not hiding her emotions from the man she'd loved since she was nineteen. She saw her own worry mirrored in his fine blue eyes. She drew her horse up, letting him come about.

"Ahamo . . ." her light purple eyes scanned the way they'd come. She supposed it might be hidden clan members, the Nature People were supreme hunters, but she couldn't ignore the feeling of being followed.

Her spouse read her easily, as he often did. "I feel it, too," he said, voice kept low. "Odd that they might keep a watch on us when we were unchallenged at the pass into the Grasslands."

She nodded, once again scanning the horizon. Leaning painfully over in order to speak lower, Lavender said, "do you think the Nature Clan has been attacked? That group of men seen recently . . ."

Sliding a hand carefully over hers on the reins, Ahamo merely nodded silently. He gripped his own reins again as his horse sidled silently. "We aren't far from Kiamo Ko, my love. Another day before we reach the mountain."

"Nodding once, the queen nudged her mare into a brisk trot then up to the much smoother cantering gait, her consort not far behind.

They traveled only another mile or so before being forced to rein in their mounts. Quickly, a group of men and women slipped from various hiding places, spears, bows, and swords in hand. None of the group smiled, eyes distrustful as they surrounded the mounted pair, far enough away to prevent easy attack by the horses.

A man stepped forward, young and athletic, light green eyes sharply focused, like some predatory bird. His black hair had been pulled back into a thick braid, though many of his party, male and female, had short hair. All had scars in ritual patterns, but the black-haired man sported facial scarification as well as a recently healing gash from his left temple down to chin, barely missing his bright eye. Unlike his fully clothed compatriots, this man wore only a pair of sturdy leather trousers and boots. His naked torso, deeply tanned from a life spent mostly out of doors, was set off by a double row of woven cords set with beads and shells round his neck. His injury continued down his left shoulder and upper arm. An armband made of braided dark metal set with an oddly shaped uncut amber set on his right bicep. The odd style of dress marked him not as a common hunter; this man held some importance in the hierarchy of the Nature Clan.

Lavender wondered if he might be a high-ranking guard.

The man raised his empty hand, the other clasping a spear. "Talk quickly. Speak wisely," he said, a touch of anger in his surprisingly light voice.

Lavender kept her touch light on the reins, not wishing to spook her unfamiliar mare. In a loud, clear voice, she said, "I am Lavender of the House of Gale of Ozma the Great. I am attended by my husband and royal consort." Here she bowed her head to the unknown man. She would not point out their lack of security. "I have come to speak to Gyles of the House of Erede."

Lowering his hand, the stranger said, "and what would you discuss with him?"

Knowing that this young man was not Gyles, but uncertain if he were related to the former head guard of the House of Terrae, she pressed her lips together without comment. Unable to produce the magical passcode, Lavender was forced to go through more tedious means of identification, including appropriate silence for an impertinent question.

A long stretch of time passed before the man nodded. "Leave the animals. Accompany me."

Ahamo slid from his gelding then stepped over to help Lavender from her mare. She gripped the blond's arm as her legs gave way and he caught her around the waist with one strong arm, easing her to the swampy spring-flooded ground. Pain radiated throughout her body, reminding her that she had not taken it easy since the news of the attack . . . despite her injuries.

Instantly, the young man was beside her, handing his spear to another clan hunter. Without a word, he reached into a small bag at his hip and pulled out a couple of river pod seeds, bringing them to her lips. She obediently let him feed her, waiting for the small comfort the narcotic would bring, though the dose was not strong enough to bring the drifting lassitude it was well-known for.

Gently, the Nature Clan hunter scooped up the Lux Clan queen, glaring at Ahamo as the royal consort reached for his wife. As if he carried something personally precious, the man began to walk through the sodden grasses and old growth, his eyes trained ahead on a small mud-brick cabin.

Ahamo lowered his hands and quickly stood to follow, his eyes worried.

Protesting in a strong voice, Lavender informed her erstwhile rescuer "I fell from my horse earlier and need to work out the pain. I have not ridden in many annuals." She did wrap her arm around his shoulders for support, careful of his wounds, as he seemed little interested in letting her go before their destination. She remained fully aware of the group of well-armed hunters following behind Ahamo.

"Umpa," the young man called as he approached the cabin. "I bring you . . ."

The door swung open before the young man could finish. An older man limped out of the way, face scarred into a grotesque snarl on one side, a bloody bruised gash across his head and receding into his thick hair. He was dressed in the brown and gold of the House of Gale, though there was blood and dirt staining the once fine fabric. He watched intently, light green eyes matching those of the younger man. "Fynch . . . quickly," he said softly, lifting his eyes to scan the horizon then apparently frowning at what he saw.

The young man carried Lavender into the one-room cabin, past the older warrior, followed by Ahamo. The rest of the group stayed outside. Closing the door, the black-haired man turned and bowed his shoulders and neck in respect for his visitors, apparently recognizing them.

"You are well come, your majesties," he greeted them.

Carefully, the younger man placed Lavender on a low-set pallet before straightening, still frowning.

"Gyles," Lavender greeted her host, holding both her hands out to the man she'd known for most of her life. "Our letters this past month have not been answered. Now we've heard disturbing rumors." She paused then said, "the pass is unguarded, and you are injured . . ." Worry laced her tones.

With a solemn nod, briefly taking her hands in greeting then releasing them, the dark-haired man dropped to his haunches with a wince, shooting his crippled leg out straight to the side. He watched silently as the younger Fynch retrieved a pair of wooden drinking cups filled with fresh spring water. After Fynch gave their guests the cups and went to stand by the door, Gyles finally addressed the queen's concerns.

"Three days ago a group of men broke through our pass defense and killed the guards there before an alarm could be raised. We are weakened from illness and the long winter rationing. Most of our healthy warriors are need to hunt for the Clan. Our hunters were not aware of the murders and did not challenge this group of invaders, thinking them invited guests. Thus they arrived at Kiamo Ko, and I am mortified to relay that I let them in the fortress. They attacked the princess and took her."

Tangling his hands together, grief and worry filled Gyles' light green eyes. "Without the boy, we lacked the magic to block this assault. Fynch is strong, but not alone," he mourned.

Fynch flushed, narrowing his eyes, anger radiating from his tense body.

Gyles sighed. "The boy's been gone an annual and we've heard nothing from him." His shoulders shook with repressed emotions.

Lavender studied Fynch carefully then turned her light purple eyes back on the royal Tin Man. "The Western Tower has fallen under attack to a group of men previously serving the witch of the darkness. My most trusted advisors and Tin Men are seeking aid from the Clans. My consort and I come to Nature for aid and go on to Phlogiston next. Are your enemies still in Kiamo Ko?"

"No," Gyles met her eyes. He shook his head, looking puzzled. "They left that very night. They left no one behind as guard and no one moving. Fynch hid me in a storage cellar before we came here, or I'd be a casualty with the other servants." Gyles turned a proud look on the young man then turned back to the queen. "They left chaos and grief . . . and they took the princess."

Carefully sipping her water as she studied the men once more, Lavender let the silence stretch as she considered the plight of the Nature Clan and her missing cousin. Lowering the cup at last, she finally said "Gyles of House Erede." Painfully, the queen rose to her feet, slowly, nodding at Ahamo to let her go once she was balanced. She turned carefully to Gyles. "Gather the people and get them to Kiamo Ko for safety. Barricade yourselves if you must. We go to Phlogiston but will send a message to the resistance for Commander Cain. They will dispatch a group to come in defense and to provide food and hunters. You will rule in the absence of the House of Terrae until the House is restored or defeated."

Formally, Gyles bowed at the shoulders and intoned softly, "I, Gyles Erede, accept this honor on behalf of my House and my people." His eyes dropped to watch the queen's hands clasping the cup. Just as softly, he asked "who will carry the message, your majesty?"

Nodding, Lavender turned to the obviously injured younger man and ask, "perhaps Fynch can be spared to carry the message?"

All three elders turned to study the younger. Gyles straightened his back and finally signalled Fynch over to him. The man left his station at the door and stepped over to the pallet, squatting down.

Gyles asked, "Son of my sister, daughter of my father, will you carry this task until it is completed or you are deceased?"

Stiffening his back in apparent pride, he replied in a firm voice. "I, Fynch Terrae, accept this honor on behalf of my House and my people.

Surprise shot through Lavender and she turned an intense look on the young man, though she spoke to the uncle. "Gyles, your younger sister married into the House?"

As proud as his nephew, the Tin Man nodded and said, "she married the youngest brother, your majesty, after the boy's birth and his parents' murder. The princess kept this union close so that we might grow in strength and defeat this evil. Then we would present the royal family as still strong and able to rule our lands." He sadly shook his head, studying his nephew with worried light green eyes. "But with the boy gone, and my sister and her husband deceased, the last of the House would be Fynch."

Lavender smiled gently, feeling pleased that she could bring good news. "Fynch is not alone," she reached out to touch Gyles' arm. "I have met his cousin, who aids in our defense. When this evil is ended, he will come home and claims his throne . . . and Fynch," she smiled at the frowning young hunter, "can assume his rightful place as leader of the Tin Men of Nature Clan."

Fynch looked stunned, apparently surprised to have been found out, but Ahamo chuckled. "She knows not everyone has the heart for ruling, Fynch. There's no shame in protecting the rulers instead." The royal consort smiled for the other man.

Making a sound low in his throat, Gyles nodded once. "Will you leave for the Altar immediately, your majesty?"

"No," Fynch jumped in, tone harsh. "She needs healing, Umpa, before she can travel to meet the barbarians of the sands."

Gyles frowned and shook his head severely, "not barbarians, son of my sister," he still used the formal speech. "They are some of our strongest warriors and dedicated . . ."

Interrupting, Fynch continued in a disapproving tone, "They have hidden away these many annuals as evil upon evil heaps at our doors. They send lone travelers out to ply their fire trades, but do nothing to aid the people who employ them."

Lavender gently said, "not true, Fynch. I know of a very dedicated soldier from the Phlogiston Clan. I would not be surprised if his name will be linked with Clan unity for generations to come."

Fynch continued to frown but bowed at the shoulders in acknowledgement of her words. "She is still injured, Umpa. She was thrown by her horse before light and is suffering from continued travel."

"I would expect nothing less of our queen, son of my sister," Gyles finally smiled, a grotesque twisting of his scarred face looking more fierce than friendly. "Stay the night in my pallet, your majesty. You will be refreshed for your journey."

Seeing the wisdom in his words, Lavender nodded. "Thank you, Gyles. We accept your hospitality." She smiled at the Tin Man.

Springing to his feet and moving quickly, Fynch began setting up a pallet on the floor next to the raised pallet. As he finished, but before Ahamo could sit on it, Gyles struggled to his feet and retrieved an earthenware jar of ointment. He slipped the container into the consort's hands.

"For her muscles, your majesty," Gyles said then lead his nephew from the one-room cabin without further comment.

Once the pair was outside, with the door closed, Ahamo turned to his wife with a smile. She smiled in return and moved gingerly as he massaged the ointment into her strained muscles. Shortly, he had her resting somewhat comfortably. She touched his cheek. "Thank you, my love."

Some time passed before Gyles and Fynch returned, bearing food from a communal fire the rest of the hunters had built outside. As Fynch set up two more pallets, one in front of the door as a means of protection, Gyles turned to the queen.

"You are being shadowed?"

"I felt as much," Lavender replied, accepting the dried meat, flat bread, and spring greens. "I do not know whom by, but I do not trust this shadow, either."

Gyles nodded. "Then Fynch will accompany you until you leave our lands. You may part ways and go to the Altar while he goes north to . . . the meeting place for the resistance?" His questioning tone reminded the queen that she had yet to inform the young man where he would be taking his message.

Ahamo answered for her. "Shiz Academy."

Light green eyes widened then Gyles nodded. Fynch nodded his own acceptance, and the foursome settled down on their pallets to eat. Lavender knew the sunrise would bring many changes for the people . . . and not just the Nature Clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	21. Control Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Lavender and Ahamo reach the Thousand Years Grassland and meet with Gyles. Fynch introduced.

Stepping into the masculine room, DG put the tray on the floor then straightened and seemed to pause, perhaps thinking through everything she'd heard. Wyatt finished locking the washroom door and turned to her. He watched her as she slowly dropped her hands to her trim waist, unhooking his gunbelt. Slipping the heavy leather with the holstered revolver onto the dressing table, DG finally turned, her blue skirt swishing around her ankles.

Her brilliant blue eyes still held anger, barely leashed, despite the length of time since she'd lost her temper over Leona's attack.

Unsure exactly how to soothe her anger, Wyatt slipped out of his uniform jacket. Hanging it on the chair, he turned to the princess. With a sigh, he said "it's going to be hours before night." He began to explore the contents of the dressing table.

Turning, DG looked over the rest of the sparsely furnished room. "Maybe we can make plans for when Glitch is well enough to escape?" She said, watching as Wyatt pulled open the drawer and began emptying it: a stack of fine paper, several metal-tipped quill pens, a bottle of ink, and a small pouch of drying sand.

Carefully pushing aside the gunbelt, Wyatt put the supplies on the dressing table, turning back to DG with a frown. "Not much here," he said and walked quietly to the window, looking out over the cracked lands four stories below.

DG's slightly hoarse sounding voice drew his gaze. "If we're careful we can raid the rooms on this floor. We'll need more medical supplies . . . bandages and stuff for Glitch." She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling up one stocking-clad foot to hug her knee, the long skirt covering her foot completely.

Wyatt strode over, crystal blue eyes worried. He sank down next to DG. "Yeah . . . linens and underclothes might have to do. We've got to be real careful about sneaking around."

She gave him a small, amused looking smile, but didn't explain the apparent joke. Instead, she leaned closer, her smile slipping back into a frown. "Wyatt, you need more sleep."

Frowning back at her, he couldn't deny he would appreciate some down time. The couple of hours from earlier had been nowhere near enough . . . and it was only zenith. Giving in to his exhaustion and her wisdom, the Tin Man nodded and stood but hesitated.

"What's wrong?" she frowned.

Clearing his throat but giving her the respect of meeting her eyes, he said "Randu's going to be back to check on us and get that tray." He eyed the bed then the floor and sighed. "He'll never believe we're married if I sleep on the floor."

"Ah . . ." DG looked towards the door, her brilliant blue eyes appearing thoughtful. "That's true. It's a big enough bed, Wyatt. We can share it . . . we did earlier."

Reluctantly, Wyatt agreed but hesitated. Finally, he stripped off his shirt and belt, leaving on his trousers and undershirt. He reached for the covers, but DG's next words stopped him.

"You should at least wear pj's, Wyatt. He'll notice if your uniform isn't complete," she gestured towards the shirt and jacket on the chair."

Wyatt had trouble erasing his surprised look. Of course, she was right; he had to acknowledge that. If they were going to convince Randu that they were newlyweds and she was off limits, they had to play the part. Wyatt nodded once and strode to the armoire, pulling the door open and finding a pair of pajamas and a long night gown. He turned only to freeze in surprise as DG, standing right behind him, nearly collided with his chest. He dropped the clothing to grip her arms in large, work-calloused hands.

She tilted her head up to flash him a smile, her eyes reflecting a flicker of an unidentifiable emotion, and something seemed to clench in Wyatt's chest. He dropped his hands as if burned and backed up a step practically stumbling into the opened closet. DG caught him by the arm and the waistband, preventing a nasty tumble and possibly broken furniture.

"Easy, Tin Man," she joked with a raspy laugh.

He noted her voice got hoarser, rougher with heightened emotion. It was one of her endearing quirks. _’Now where the hell did that come from?’_ he thought desperately. As the woman knelt to pick up the clothes, he watched her with guarded eyes. _’She's barely older than my boy . . . and she's the princess.’_ Wyatt knew he'd been feeling too attached to the woman by the end of their Emerald Quest; it was one of the reasons he'd gone south with Jeb to start anew and take up smithing again. Proximity with this woman spelled trouble. Recalling the single suitor's braid she'd been wearing only that morning, Wyatt knew there was one more reason to avoid letting himself get even closer to DG: she was seeing someone.

"Head's up, Wyatt!" DG called, and he reacted quickly, instinctively catching the pair of sleep trousers she'd throw his way.

With a nod, Wyatt quickly crossed the room and unlocked the washroom, heading in to change. When he came out, he nearly turned and went right back in, not too sure about the wisdom of their pretense after all. DG had opted not to wear the nightgown he'd provided but the shirt that went with his pajama trousers . . . and nothing else. Her long legs were quite a distraction, and Wyatt had to ruthlessly push away such thoughts about the woman he protected.

She seemed to ignore his state of undress as she walked over and took his uniform trousers then folded them, along with the under shirt, and placed them on the dressing table. She then walked over the the bed and slid under the covers, her back to the center of the bed.

Drawing a deep breath and trying to ignore his whirling thoughts and confused reactions, Wyatt slid into the other side. Turning his back on DG, he tried to regain his earlier sleep, but the proximity of a half-clad DG made it hard to relax. She seemed to have no problems and apparently drifted right off. Feeling old for the first time in his thirty-five annuals, Wyatt knew he had to get them out of there as soon as possible: for their safety and his own peace of mind.

He closed his eyes and, despite his heightened awareness and his jumbled thoughts, finally drifted off in exhaustion.

xxx

DG laid perfectly still, staring at the bathroom door, her heart racing. The twenty annual old woman listened carefully as her companion's breathing slowed into a sleep rhythm. She waited a few more minutes before carefully sliding from the bed and walking softly to the dressing table. She picked up his uniform and moved it carefully to a shelf inside the armoire. Sinking onto the dressing table chair, DG put one foot up on the seat and wrapped her arms around her knee, watching Wyatt as he slept.

Finally, she allowed herself to deal with the last few minutes.

Normally, Wyatt was in total control, almost cold in his reactions and manner. But just a moment ago his crystal eyes had not seemed cold in the least; they'd seemed lit by a burning heat. Her own heart had leapt at the emotions she thought she'd seen. DG had fought hard to tamp down her reaction. There was no way she'd interpreted his reactions correctly: this was Mister Cain, the Tin Man.

Frowning, DG picked up a quill and opened the ink bottle, carefully dipping the metal tip into the ink. Without much thought, she put pen to paper and began drawing, something she had always done when trying to sort her confusing emotions back on the farm. Oddly, it had been a month since she'd put pen to paper; her last drawing had been the portrait of the lavender eyed woman from her cave nightmare: her mother.

As she absently sketched, DG puzzled out her quiet, steadfast companion's apparent reactions. He'd had two hours of sleep in three days. But exhaustion had never made other men she knew react with such heat. Frown easing, DG recalled that he'd been trapped for eight years in that iron suit. All that time, he'd thought his wife was dead, even though he'd been hopeful down deep. And, last month, he'd found that Adora had indeed died, even though it had only been a few months before and not years. Still, DG knew Wyatt had been without female companionship for years . . . no wonder he'd reacted to her. _If_ he had . . . DG flushed. She was only assuming that the fire she'd seen in Wyatt's eyes had been desire.

Biting back an embarrassed groan, DG tamped down her own feelings again. She knew she was interested in Wyatt, had known since he'd shown up at the tower disguised as a Long Coat after the Mystic Man had been killed. But she knew that he thought of her as a kid, a couple years older than his own son . . . not that fifteen years difference was that big back on the Other Side in farm country; most women seemed to prefer a mature man rather than a reckless early-twenty-something for a long-term relationship. She hadn't seen such an age gap in couples in the Outer Zone though.

Suddenly, she recalled that people here married if they got pregnant. That meant that even accidents were treated like a pledge for life: how medieval. Frowning once more, DG made a few darker, bolder strokes as her emotions spiked. Sure, she wanted a lasting, forever kind of marriage, like her parents, but one mistake and stuck for life? One attack and chained forever? The O.Z. made little sense to the Kansas-raised farm girl turned princess.

A movement from the bed caused her to freeze, and DG looked over at Wyatt's restless form. She watched as the man turned, facing the center of the bed, his face creased with troubled dreams. Sighing, DG shook her head. He deserved the chance to fall in love again . . . as he had with Adora. DG couldn't let her reactions to him take advantage of his years of celibacy. Apparently _'casual'_ wasn't a word associated with relationships in the O.Z.

Slowly, DG went back to her sketch.

The sound of a key in the lock of the hall door drew her immediate attention. Suddenly wishing she'd grabbed a robe from the armoire, DG made a quick dive for the bed, slipping under the covers as the door opened. Unfortunately, her rough movements woke Wyatt, but DG felt it was safer to not let Randu see her in practically nothing. The thought made her flinch inside: she'd actually worn this in front of Wyatt, too. _’Way to push,’_ DG thought, frowning fiercely.

"Well, something bothering you, Mrs. Gale?" Randu's genial, amused tone broke through her black study and she looked over at him.

The man strode into the room and glanced over the couple, but didn't seem troubled or surprised by seeing them in bed in sleepwear. Rather, he signalled someone behind him to enter the room. Two more Long Coats came in, one stopping just inside the door and the other heading to collect the tray from the floor. Randu strode over to the dressing table and studied the not-quite finished drawing DG had been working on. A look of surprised crossed his face and he picked up the sheet of paper.

Looking at DG, he held up the portrait of Wyatt sleeping. "You are quite talented for a farm girl, princess."

She flushed and ducked her head, not letting him see that she was angry rather than embarrassed.

The Long Coat commander chuckled. "So, you rule chickens, draw portraits, and teach small children." Randu watched as the man with the tray left. Putting the paper back on the table, he looked back at DG. "And do you know anything about nursing?"

DG looked up and tried to ease her frown. Softly, she said "I know some first aid. Is someone hurt?"

Randu shrugged lightly, giving no sign of the injury Leona claimed she'd given him. "Well, that patient from the medical ward . . . what was his name?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think I've met him." She looked at Wyatt who had remained quietly watching their interplay. "Wyatt? The general wants to know about that patient you were guarding."

Wyatt pushed himself to a sitting position, revealing to Randu that he was also under-dressed in only the trousers which matched DG's top. In a sleep-fuzzed voice, he ran a hand through light blond hair and said, "the mechanic? Um . . . I think it was . . . uh . . . Alan?"

Randu smiled and nodded amiably. "And you said he was in a coma?" The man's eyes roved over the pair.

With a nod, Wyatt frowned. "Yes, Sir. I was told he had a head injury and was in a coma. They didn't think he'd live." After a long moment he asked, "he died, didn't he, Sir? I should've stayed on duty!" Wyatt starting pushing his blankets off his legs but Randu held up a hand.

"No, no. You were ordered off duty. And unless you're a medico in disguise, there's nothing you can do." He lowered his hand to his own gun hilt. "Actually, the patient isn't in his room, Lieutenant Gale. He's missing."

At that, Wyatt slipped out of the bed and headed for his uniform. "I'll help you look for him, Sir."

Randu immediately dropped his genial, relaxed manner. "No!" Wyatt shot to attention and Randu frowned, looking over the room. "My guards are looking for the man and any medicos who may have stayed behind. You are still under orders to remain with your wife until I come for you tomorrow. Now, back to bed with you both," he frowned fiercely at them.

Wyatt obeyed but looked disturbed by such an order. "Sir? Why are you locking us in?"

"Safety, Lieutenant," Randu promptly responded. "There are dissenters on the loose and I want to know my . . . queen's supporters are protected." He held up a hand and claimed, "no more questions, Lieutenant." At that, the Long Coat commander turned smartly and strode from the room, his guard following. The sound of the lock clicking seemed to echo.

DG looked at Wyatt, who slipped back into bed with a severe frown. She sighed. "They're looking for . . ." she looked to the door and realized she hadn't heard the sounds of boots walking away. Carefully, she finished, "a missing coma man? Could he have woken up and walked away?"

Wyatt, taking her cue answered "maybe a medico took him out of there when we were talking in the lab?"

She playfully added, "talking? I thought we were kissing . . ."

The sound of three pairs of boots walked away then and DG knew the Long Coats had been eavesdropping in the hopes of catching them in a lie. Her vibrant blue eyes met Wyatt's crystal-colored ones. She sighed, but he nodded.

"I'm going to try to sleep some more. They'll probably leave us alone for a few more hours, at least until dinner. They might check the door a couple of times, but we might be starting to convince them." Wyatt ran his hand through his short hair again, looking at the door.

She nodded and laid down, turning her back to Wyatt once more, intent on keeping their relationship on a professional princess-bodyguard level. "Sure, sleep. I think I'll take a nap, too." She closed her eyes and listened as Wyatt settled down, turning his back to her, and seemed to relax. His breathing slowed, but DG had to work on controlling hers. "Damn!" It was one thing knowing she had to control things for his sake, but it wouldn't be easy: especially when trapped in a small room for an unknown length of time with a man apparently built from any girl's fantasy.

DG squeezed her eyes tight and tried to think of anything but the man lying beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	22. Powerful Reactions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: DG and Wyatt fight their growing attraction.

The suns hung low in the deepening sky, only an hour of sunlight remaining to the slowly moving pair on horseback. Despite the faster mode of transport, Az and Dylan had been unable to take advantage of the promise of speed. Az's broken arm prevented any gait but a sedate plodding walk. They both had to bury their frustration at the unanticipated limitation.

Fortunately the road from the first curve of the Vinkus River to the second bend had been smooth and traveller-free. The river rushed by over boulders and among trees, lush grass interspersed with wild roots and flowers growing right to the edge of the road. On the opposite side of the paved road set the barren fields of the Papay.

Dylan slid from his gelding and turned to aid Azkadellia from hers. Looping the reins around a pair of branches hanging low near the river, spring grass abundant for their mounts, Dylan turned and stepped over the visible line that seemed to denote dried and gnarled Papay orchards as opposed to the road and grassy fields of the Mortem and Gale clans. Apparently the Papay, even in their annuals of hunger, had not strayed over the unguarded border; any non-Papay would have learned to their folly to be as respectful of their entomological neighbors.

Looking over the dead valley, Dylan squinted in the lowering light. "I think there might be one tree still alive out there."

Slipping her good left hand under her right forearm to ease the pressure from her silk sling, Az smiled softly, pain radiating through her eyes. "DG healed one for them during her Emerald Quest."

At Dylan's nod, the princess turned to study the barren orchards. "How do we parlay with them?" she sighed, stepping up next to Dylan. "I don't know their language. Ambrose never did get to teach it to me. He speaks it . . . if he hasn't forgotten." She snapped her mouth closed, realizing she was babbling in her exhaustion and pain.

Looking at her, Dylan turned, crossed to the horses, and reached into her saddle bag. He pulled out the small bottle of medicine Serra had given them, retrieving one pill, then carefully capping it and putting it back in the bag. Grabbing a canteen, Dylan moved back to Az's side, uncapped the canteen, and offered both medicine and water to the injured princess. "Take this, Az. We'll camp by the river for the night."

She took his offerings and glanced over to the small river glade they'd tethered their horses in. With a nod, Az swallowed the pill and some water. Offering the canteen back, her dark eyes opened wide as Dylan dropped to one knee, facing the decimated orchard.

"Now, let's see if they'll accept parlay," he said.

Whirling around, Az nearly dropped the open canteen, horror filling her at the sight of several gaunt Papay loping towards them. "Dylan . . ." she looked at a nearby tree, switching the canteen to her injured right hand. Trying to steady her voice, she said "maybe I can use my light to heal a tree like DG did?"

Dylan ran his hands over the loose dirt before him then smiled grimly. "No need." He plunged his hands into the dirt up to his wrists and closed his eyes. An odd greenish glow, dancing with brown and gold, began just at his visible skin above the dirt and climbed up his arms. As the glow seemed to envelope the young man, a low vibration began underfoot, radiating outwards, shaking the dirt and rocks. A sheen of sweat beaded Dylan's skin and his breathing grew labored, his skin paling further.

"Wait!" Az could tell he pushed himself; with his precarious health it could kill him. "Dylan, stop!"

The Papay came to a stop about a hundred yards away and seemed to watch them intently.

Az squatted down, trying to ignore their imminent danger. "Dylan," she gripped his arm, feeling the vibration and warmth of his Nature Magic through the contact.

He shook his head but apparently had to concentrate too hard to pull away from her. Opening his eyes, an intense almost terrifying look in the grey depths, Dylan watched the Papay. Slowly verdant shoots broke through the dry earth, writhing like bright green snakes, twining around the old, dead trees and overcoming them.

Sudden understanding came to Az and she released Dylan's arm to raise her left hand, trembling, over his head. Closing her own eyes in deep effort, she let her long unused light magic burst forth in a white-yellow glow, encouraging the plant life to grow and thrive. She still held the open canteen in her right hand and so, ignoring the pain of the sharp movement of her broken limb, tossed the remaining water from the near-full vessel over the new growth.

As if in joyous response to the water and light, the plants sprouted into young trees, branches spreading from half a dozen thickening trunks. Leaves unfurled and blossoms sprang to glorious life then fruit formed, full and heavy over the heads of the still watchful Papay.

Finally, Dylan pulled his soiled hands out of the earth and practically fell back into Az's legs, staggering her. She caught them both and stiffly bowed to the hunting party before them. Slowly, the six Papay hunters bowed in return then rose on long, powerful legs to begin harvesting the red and yellow fruits.

Az called, "we come on parlay for peace. We need to ask aid in defeating the rising evil. Will Somniabunt help in the coming battle?" She knew her words had been all wrong, but could not think what the proper address for the Papay was.

As one, the hunting party turned fruit gatherers looked at her then loped off further into the remaining barren orchard, presumably heading towards their burrows.

Kneeling, Az gripped Dylan's trembling arm in an equally shaky grasp, worried by his labored breathing. She tugged him up, the man barely able to rise to his feet and follow her lead. Az guided him back over the Papay border and across the road to their horses. She allowed him to collapse onto the soft grass. Careful not to tumble into the water despite her shaking limbs, Az refilled the canteen and returned to Dylan's side. Finally she sat on the ground beside him and offered the water.

He gave her a weak smile and took the canteen, drinking eagerly. His color began to come back and he let out a wavering rush of air.

At her rising anger, Az's voice deepened and she turned intense hazel eyes on the weakened man. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Dylan raised startled grey eyes. "Kill . . . myself?" he panted.

"Yes!" she rose and turned to look out over the rushing river. "You're weak from a terminal illness and have been traveling for two . . . maybe three days?" She whirled back to him, anger snapping in her eyes, "And yet you insist on weakening yourself to near collapse when I could have . . ."

"No, Az," he interrupted. "You and I know it's been too many annuals. The Papay wouldn't respond to just passcodes. But the Nature Clan's ability to heal plants . . . that was our only hope, Az." Dylan took another long drink.

She clenched her left hand, bunching the material of her skirt in her fist. Enunciating carefully, she said "DG used Light Magic to heal a tree. I could have done that, Dylan." She glared down at him. "There was no need to risk yourself like that . . . it was totally selfish!"

Grey eyes widening, the bodyguard looked up at the princess. "Selfish?" He shook his head, sweat drenched platinum hair plastered to his skull. "How can giving the Papay food so they'll help us be selfish, Az?"

Sinking down to the ground beside him, Az's voice softened. "Because you could have died, Dylan, when I could have done something. Yes, it wouldn't have been on such a grand scale, but I could have healed at least one tree."

"And now they have half a dozen more to feed their Clan." Dylan frowned at her.

Az shook her head, touching his arm. "I'm not trying to be callous, Dylan, but did you think that we have two more clans to parlay with and you've sworn to help and protect me? You know the codes, Leona told you them . . . and they require two messengers." She shook his arm to bring home her point. "I cannot do this alone, Dylan!"

He blinked, as if the thought had not crossed his mind in his attempt to be generous to the starving Papay. Slowly, his breathing coming under control, the newly sworn Tin Man nodded. "I . . . I'm sorry, Az."

Pulling back her hand, she nodded, still frowning. "No grand gestures, Dylan. Promise me . . . if someone else can do it, you'll concede . . . until we can get you healed."

Reluctance vibrated through his voice as Dylan nodded, "This I swear, Princess."

"Accepted," Az returned crisply then stood and rooted through their saddlebags, hindered with only one good hand. She managed to pull out a linen wrapped cheese, some bread, and a bit of dried meat. "Here, eat," she said as she sat next to him. "When we're done, we'll make camp."

Dylan accepted the food and they shared the trail rations. Several minutes passed before Dylan asked, "you're betrothed, Az? You said so earlier . . ."

Surprised at the unexpected personal question, Az nodded and turned to meet his grey eyes. Dylan hadn't seemed the type to pry. Perhaps that was why she answered. "Yes, though I don't know if . . ." She stopped herself. She had no idea why she'd been about to share that burden with Dylan. Explaining to DG about the two dead princes was one thing, but this man was practically a stranger, despite the day's adventures. Turning the question back on him, not expecting an answer from the quiet man, Az said, "and you? Do you have someone, Dylan?"

He nodded slowly, surprising her again. "Yes. It's not officially recorded, but I'm promised, too."

Az met his eyes. "And are you in love with her or is it duty?" Duty marriages were fewer and fewer these days, but they were not unheard of.

With a soft sound, low in his throat, Dylan looked down at his hands. "I'm in love, but not with my fiancee. But," he met her eyes, looking serious if sad, "I will not dishonor her. I will let my betrothed determine if we marry and abide by her decision . . . after this incursion is put down and we have Clan unity."

"And what of the woman you love?" Az asked, voice barely a whisper.

Dylan seemed to hear her with no trouble. "She is aware of my duty and will abide by it, as well." His voice sounded sad yet determined.

She nodded.

"What of you, Az?" Dylan took another drink. "Do you love your intended?" He seemed to wait almost breathlessly for her answer.

"Love him?" Az shook her head, wanting to end this very personal conversation. She had asked him, though, and felt she must answer honestly in kind. "I don't know him, so no, I don't love him. But if he presents himself, I will honor our union . . . it was arranged for Clan unity, after all," she sighed once more.

Dylan offered her the canteen, his voice just as soft as hers. "But is there someone else you love? Or do you go whole-hearted towards this marriage?"

"Someone else I love?" Az accepted the canteen but didn't drink. Instead, she let her mind wander over every man she'd ever known. With a frown, she shook her head. "In all these annuals, there has only been one man not related to me to deserve my love . . ."

"The bodyguard who stopped your abuse?" Dylan asked, his voice suddenly sharp. "You'd be better to hold onto your heart than to trust that Long Coat commander, Az!"

Shocked by the hostility in his voice, Az turned wide hazel eyes on her companion. "How can you say that, Dylan? You've never even met Zero! He's defended me since we were children . . . has always been there for me . . ."

"He's not the child you remember, Az!" Dylan sprang to his feet, apparently recovered and now restless in his anger. "That man is the bane of the O.Z. He tortures and kills without the slightest qualm. Great Ozma, Az, he served the witch without complaint for fifteen annuals! It would be best if your intended declared himself to save you from your own foolish heart!"

Rising slowly to her feet, awkward with only one good hand for balance, Az stiffened to her full height. "Zero would never betray me, Dylan." She glared at him, her voice low, intense, "he has always served me, protected me. I trust him above all others . . ." she turned from him, "even you."

She ignored his sudden intake of breath as she put away what remained of their bread and cheese. "The sun sets soon. We should set up our camp now," Az said in a cold, distant voice.

"Az . . ." Dylan sounded strained.

The princess held up her hand to silence him. "Don't Dylan. I don't wish to hear it."

He nodded, and in strained silence the pair worked to get a makeshift lean-to built between two trees before darkness fell completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	23. Realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Az and Dylan meet the Papay and Dylan overworks himself to the point of collapse. Az gets angry and the pair fight over her trust in the presumed-dead Zero.

Opening sleep-blurred blue eyes, DG had no idea when she'd drifted off or how long she'd slept. Darkness had settled over the room; it must have been hours. A strong arm encircled her waist and she took a long moment to think who it could be; her last boyfriend had ditched her for a perky Humanities Major over six months ago. Sudden awareness brought heat to her face and coursing over her entire body: Wyatt. _’He must've cuddled in his sleep. Who'd have thought he's a cuddler.’_ She couldn't let him wake up with her in his arms. Blinking, DG pushed to a sitting position.

Something felt . . . wrong, like the time the travel storm came to Kansas. The darkness remained still, but an eerie feeling crept down her spine.

Turning, she could barely make out the figure of Wyatt lying beside her. DG frowned and laid a hand on his bare shoulder. His breathing was soft and controlled, but his arm contracted at her touch. Since he hadn't moved at her position change, she knew he'd woken first. _’Terrific!’_ she thought sarcastically. Out loud she said "Wyatt?" She cleared her throat; her voice always sounded huskier after sleep.

The sound of a pair of boots walking away in the hall brought DG spinning around to stare into the darkness of their room. Beside her Wyatt sat up, pushed back the covers, and slid from the bed. He walked to the door and stood by it, DG barely able to discern him in the darkness, though her eyes seemed to be adjusting.

Finally, Wyatt fumbled for a lamp DG knew hadn't been there before. He struck a long wooden match and carefully lit the oil lamp, placing it on the dressing table. Pausing, he looked down at the sketch DG had done earlier; she flushed.

"You're an artist?" he sounded surprised, and she realized she'd never told her friends about her two Other Side hobbies: art and mechanics.

With a shrug, she nodded. "Yeah, my . . . uh . . . robo-dad said I was pretty good."

He mouthed the words 'robo-dad' but turned to the armoire and opened it. Quickly he pulled out a robe and turned to put it on the bed at her feet. "Here, it's gotten colder."

Taking the hint, DG slid into the robe then grabbed the bathroom key. "So, they dropped off supper and a light while we slept." She hated the idea that Randu's men had come in on them in so vulnerable a state. Staring pointedly at the tray balanced on the single chair, she let her sarcasm show when she said, "that's room service for you."

Wyatt merely nodded and picked up the tray then headed for the connecting bathroom. "Well, they also finally took off again so let's go eat."

Was that what had bothered her: a Long Coat standing, listening outside in the hall? She nodded and led Wyatt into the lady's room next door.

Sudden worry filled DG when she saw the flushed look to Leona's face as she lay sleeping in the bed next to Ambrose. All thought of the Long Coat spy or the way she'd awakened left DG's mind. She hurried over to gently touch her cousin's forehead; the woman opened vibrant blue eyes, bright with a fever. DG swore, "Hell, she's running a fever, Wyatt."

Quickly he placed the tray on the foot of the bed and went to move the lantern into the bathroom; he couldn't bring it to the sickroom or a passing Long Coat would see the glow under the door and figure out the pair had an escape route. Leaving the lamp on the shelf next to the hipbath, Wyatt came into the room and pulled the delicate looking vanity chair to Leona's side. He placed the inside of his wrist against her forehead and frowned, worry filling his crystal-blue eyes.

Ambrose restlessly turned over and startled awake. "Hey! What are you doing?" His voice sounded indignant, confused.

DG hurried to his side of the bed. "Ambrose, it's okay. We've come with dinner . . ."

Her words didn't seem to soothe the royal advisor. Instead, he turned to Wyatt and said "but what are you doing, Cain . . . I mean Gale?"

Straightening quickly, Wyatt shot Ambrose a look DG could easily translate: he didn't like being called _'Gale.'_

"Leona's feverish," Wyatt stated sounding withdrawn and serious. He walked over to the fedora on the vanity and took the key for the hall door from the hat. "Stay here. I'm getting some medicine."

Opening her mouth to protest, DG frowned as Wyatt shook his head, interrupting her. "If I'm caught, I can try to convince them I have spare keys since I'm a guard. I don't want them catching _you_ out alone, DG."

Glaring at him, she snapped her mouth shut and slipped onto the bed on Leona's side. When Wyatt locked them in, she sighed and turned back to her cousin; Leona had closed her eyes once more. Frowning, DG looked up at Ambrose, trying to control her annoyance with Wyatt for putting her into the role of useless victim in need of protection. Would the man never remember she had skills and courage?

"Uh? DG?" Ambrose's voice brought her back out of her resentful thoughts.

She realized she'd been staring at the injured man. Offering her friend a gentle smile, she asked softly "how are you, Ambrose? Did the nap help your head?" She slipped from the bed and into the bathroom to fill the tumbler with cold water, bringing it back to offer to her advisor. Once he took the glass, DG settled back in bed next to her cousin.

Ambrose touched his bandaged head and grimaced then took a long drink of water. Handing the glass over to DG, he buried his hands in the blankets, though they seemed to make clutching motions as he spoke. "Yeah, the nap helped. So did the medicine. But now my head itches." He nodded sagely at her and went on, "of course, I know I'm not supposed to scratch. Itching is a sign of healing."

A click sounded from the hall door.

As if oblivious to the threat, Ambrose continued, "But I . . ."

DG's hand shot out and over his mouth. "Shut up, Glitch," she hissed, her attention drawn to the entry. She knew it should be Wyatt returning; who else would have a key? But the idea of Randu or his guards coming in on the two defenseless victims she'd hidden in the room terrified her.

Instantly, Ambrose shut his mouth, eyes widening as he, too, stared at the door, resembling an animal caught in high beams.

Wyatt opened the door and entered, quickly locking the door behind him. In his arms he carried a jumble of items. Quiet on his bare feet, the tall blond strode to Leona's side of the bed and sat on the chair, laying his loot out on the covers: three more water glasses, several clean linen shirts, someone's entire shaving kit, and a nondescript worn leather pack.

Looking from the jumble of stuff to Wyatt, who opened the pack revealing rolled bandaged, medicine, and other first aid supplies, DG asked "Where did you get that?"

The feel of Ambrose's mouth moving against her palm and a muffled murmuring brought a quick flush to the princess's face. She dropped her hand from the advisor's mouth and said, "sorry, Ambrose."

"Where did you get that?" DG repeated, looking back to Wyatt and reaching for a neatly labeled medicine packet.

Shrugging, Wyatt softly answered "it's Jeb's. His room was two doors down. Dylan's is further, but I didn't venture that far yet. I raided only the nearest rooms for the shirts, cups, and Jeb's things." He glanced at the injured couple. "You doing okay, Ambrose?"

Ambrose nodded in response, but kept his mouth closed.

Giving the normally overly-talkative man an inscrutable look, Wyatt turned back to the medical pack. He pulled out a small paper packet and handed it to DG. "Pour that in some water for her. She'll need to drink all of it."

"Is it for fever?" DG carefully opened the packet to find a grey colored powder.

"No." Wyatt turned and carefully sat the feverish woman up and eased her nightgown over her head, laying it on the bed. "It's for infection." Gently, the former cop began checking over Leona's entire body, noting the condition of every injury.

Several of the larger gashes had puckered and grown quite red, hard, and hot. A gruesome yellow-green scar closed those wounds yet looked strained to the limit.

DG's eyes widened at the sight of the infected wounds. She picked up one of the empty water tumblers and hesitated.

Wyatt pulled out his straight razor, opening it and offering it carefully to DG. "Sterilize that in the lamp's flame. I need to reopen these to drain them."

She took the handle and did as bid, returning quickly with a full glass, a couple of towels, and the rapidly cooling blade. DG handed the razor back to Wyatt and laid the towels next to Leona's hip. Quickly she poured the powder into the glass and watched as it swirled and dissolved and colored the water a slight greyish tinted. Looking up, the princess never even flinched as she worriedly watched Wyatt and Leona.

As Wyatt drew the blade over the gash on Leona's left shoulder, the older woman whimpered and clutched at him. DG hurried to grab her cousin's hands, trying to prevent the other princess from getting seriously hurt while Wyatt worked.

"Wyatt? Do you know what you're doing?" DG couldn't help asking even though he seemed so sure of himself.

He nodded as he pushed the thick discolored fluid from the freely bleeding wound. "I trained to go in the army when I was a teen." He wiped the blade on one towel and began carefully slicing the puckered flesh of a wound on Leona's right thigh. "First aid was one of the first things we were taught. Of course, anything this serious was handled by a medico, but I watched enough infected injuries treated to try it now." He again cleaned the pus-covered blade and worked on a third gash, across her right knee. "She can't wait until we find a real doctor."

DG nodded, still worrying about the almost primitive methods they were using.

Oddly Ambrose merely watched in fascination as if he'd never known such a procedure existed. DG didn't bother breaking him from his obvious _'Glitch'_ moment.

Fortunately, after that third wound Wyatt took a long look over the naked body of his patient then grabbed the second towel and started cleaning the draining areas. He softly said "let her go, DG. I've got her now." As the younger woman released the elder and stepped away, Wyatt sank onto the bed next to Leona and began using a paste from a small jar to slather the wounds. With a roll of bandages cut into strips using Jeb's straight razor, the Tin Man covered the three treated wounds. He laid Leona back against her headboard and stood, moving to Ambrose's side of the bed. "Give her the drink, DG."

"Right," she had to clear her throat as her voice sounded more whisper than comment. Replacing Wyatt on the bed next to her cousin, DG slid an arm around Leona and said "drink this." She aided the other woman to drink the liquid, wincing along with Leona as the woman made a face at the taste. It took only minutes for Leona to finish off the medicinal drink, though.

Nodding, Wyatt turned to Ambrose. "Your turn."

"Uh," Ambrose lifted his hands in a placating manner and said, "I really don't think I need you to reopen my head, Gale."

On a low growl, Wyatt said, "call me Wyatt, and I'm not reopening your head. I'm changing your bandages."

The advisor blinked dark brown eyes and made an _'O'_ of his mouth. Nodding hesitantly, he lowered his hands and shut his eyes, stiffening as if expecting pain.

Wyatt rolled his eyes and began to unwrap the thick gauze around Ambrose's head.

Reaching into Jeb's medical kit, DG rooted through the neatly labeled medicines. "Ambrose," she called to distract the frightened patient. "Can you tell me the names of medicines for fever and pain? Ones normally in a first aid kit?"

Seizing on the topic, Ambrose started rattling off the list of normal medicines regularly used. He seemed to relax as Wyatt finished un-bandaging him. Ambrose's black hair had been shaved completely off, revealing the long stitched surgical scar down the center of his head where his zipper had once been. Fortunately, the wound seemed to be healing well thanks to the care of the medicos and the magic used to aid him.

Carefully Wyatt re-bandaged the other man's head, not disturbing the fresh sutures.

Meanwhile, listening attentively, DG found two of the drugs Ambrose mentioned and read the labels, frowning. "Hey, Ambrose," she interrupted, "what's the dose on these two?" She held them up, forcing Ambrose to open his eyes and concentrate on what she presented.

He answered quickly then closed his eyes again, hands clenching at the sheets though he didn't seem to be in too much pain.

"Thanks." DG counted out the proper amount of pills, putting the rest back in the kit. Turning to Leona, she helped her cousin swallow the medicine.

When both caregivers had finished, Wyatt rose from where he sat on the bed and retrieved the chair from the other side of the bed. He moved it to Ambrose's side, sat down, and pulled the dinner tray closer. "We need to eat quickly. I'm not sure when they'll come back for the tray."

DG picked up a spoon and began feeding Leona the soup, soaking chunks of bread in the still warm broth to feed the injured woman. Leona ate listlessly and only finished half of her designated limited rations.

Sitting back as Leona refused more soup, DG frowned. "You sure? We can't save it for later."

"You eat it," Leona murmured leaning back into her pillow, shaking with her efforts so far. "If I eat any more, we'll all regret it." She looked up at her cousin, apparently miserable.

DG hoped the medicine would kick in soon as she finished off her share of the food plus Leona's leftovers.

The two men sat, sharing the other bowl of soup, watching equally worried. After a long moment, Ambrose reached for the apple juice, and Wyatt conceded the cup without protest. DG offered the Tin Man the other cup, not particularly thirsty. He accepted the glass and drank the entire small amount; Randu's cook wasn't generous with the juice.

"I suppose this means we can't escape tomorrow?" DG spoke low, despite the silence from the hall indicating no passing guards.

Wyatt studied the injured couple and answered just as softly. "Depends on if Ambrose is recovered enough to get through the tunnels. I can carry Leona."

A soft chuckle escaped the older princess, her eyes closing. "Oh, that might be nice. I love being pampered."

Ambrose rolled his eyes and turned to Leona, opening his mouth, but apparently he thought better of his comment because he shut it again.

She patted his hand without opening her eyes, smiling slightly as she said "I know . . . the death of you."

DG stared at Leona, wondering what she meant by such an odd comment, but neither patient explained. With a sigh, the younger woman picked up the tray, devoid of food once more, and said "try to rest, okay?"

Leona nodded and Ambrose hid a yawn behind his hand, mumbling "I don't think that'll be a problem."

Wyatt followed DG from the room. He retrieved the lamp then closed and locked the bathroom door behind them. He'd left all of their purloined supplies in the other room. Wyatt placed the lamp carefully on the dressing table.

Putting the tray on the floor near the hall door, DG sank onto the bed. She pulled her foot up to set on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knee and burying her face in her arms. After a long moment, the bed beside her sank down and Wyatt put a hand on her back.

"You okay, Kid?" he asked softly.

Not answering, DG merely nodded her head. Apparently, he took that to mean _'No,'_ as he started rubbing his strong hand across the top center of her back. The unspoken support called forth the tears she'd been holding back and she sobbed. Seeing the others so sick had brought home just how desperate their situation had become, how much danger everyone she loved was in.

"Hey," Wyatt said and suddenly slipped his arm around her, holding her against his sturdy frame. "We're not going to let Randu win, DG. We have allies coming. We can beat this."

She nodded and let herself relax against her Tin Man, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart under her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	24. The Blacksmith's Sawhorse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: DG and Cain take care of a worsening Leona and Ambrose as they deal with their marriage masquerade. DG finally breaks down.

The smell of river pod ointment teased Jeb's nostrils, waking him from his drugged sleep, though he felt refreshed after so many hours undisturbed. Perforce of habit, he reached up to brush his dark blond hair from his blue-grey eyes. As his mind focused, Jeb froze and looked at his hand, eyes widening. "What the hell?"

His voice seemed to awaken Mariah sleeping sitting against the bed, head leaning on the wall. She opened her liquid amber eyes and watched him, silent as ever, her ever present serious thoughtfulness crossing her face.

Looking back at his hands, wonder in his voice, Jeb said "how'd my hands heal?" He turned his long-fingered delicate seeming hands, checking from all angles. "No scars either?" The resistance leader lifted his eyes to the red-haired woman he'd met barely eighteen hours before. "Fireweed never heals neatly . . . only magic does." His eyes fell to the magic-blocking collar she wore.

She nodded and pushed herself from her seat on the floor. Holding out her hands to Jeb, she offered the barest hint of a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

That smile drew him like a siren's call, reminding him of their close call at the gates of Central City . . . and how they'd avoided the security check of the Long Coats. Jeb took her hands and let her pull him to his feet from the low pallet. Her strength surprised him; he could feel it in arms and hands that had been gentle during her provident healing of him and Toto the day before.

Mariah actually kept his left hand in her right as she turned to lead him to the old hipbath set near the back wall. The sound of water quietly rippling came from the tub and Jeb glanced at Mariah in surprise. She nodded once to him.

Jeb looked into the hipbath to find a woman with hair so black it almost appeared violet: one of the near-mythical Aquam.

His mother had told him tales of the different clans. According to her stories, Aquam can heal any ill or hurt, but the price for such magical aid was great as no one could touch an Aquam without magic of his own. Almost as elusive as the fabled Fire People of the Phlogiston Clan, the Ice Dwellers of Aquam Clan were strong fighters but were said to be distrustful of most strangers.

"Is she hurt?" Jeb let go of Mariah and squatted next to the bath, concern for the unusual woman over-riding his curiosity over his own injuries. He glanced up at Mariah. A shake of her head reassured him so he looked back to the stranger and had to smother a gasp; her eyes had opened to reveal pure luminescent white.

The Aquam woman smiled up at Jeb and sat up, putting her hand over her throat as she sat in the nearly full tub. "Hello," her voice echoed lightly and a soft liquid blue light seemed to emanate from where she touched her own skin. "You are much better now."

"Did you heal me?" shock coursed through him; he'd never thought he had magic. After all, neither of his parents had ever displayed any magical abilities in front of him. He'd assumed the Cains were like three-fourths of the Outer Zone: un-magical. To realize he was actually one of the minority startled the royal Tin Man. He wondered if he could learn to use magic this late in life. _’What can I do?’_ he asked himself.

"Yes," the Aquam woman's answer interrupted Jeb's wayward thoughts. "I am Arista and I saw the Corde injured by the twisted evil in those collars," she gestured towards Toto.

Immediately, Jeb whirled around to check his journey companion, missing whatever else she might have said; he shuddered to see the dog swathed ears to tail tip in bandages soaked in the heavy narcotic: Toto was being kept in a drug-induced coma to aid healing. Something Arista said did draw Jeb's attention finally. "What Corde?" He hadn't thought any viewers would be at the abandoned academy.

Laughter bubbled up from the amused seeming water dweller. "I did not get their names. One was older, the other a mere boy. They tried healing the Sapientiam mage."

Frowning, Jeb looked again at Toto. "Sapientiam? Are you sure?" He walked over to the canine shape-shifter. "I've heard none of their magic House survived."

She laughed again, her voice echoing pleasantly low. "They are the only ones with the magic to be both animal and non-animal. I have only met two others, but I will never forget the magic aura they emit." Arista slipped under the water briefly then came back up still smiling. "And you found Mariah . . . that _is_ good. We were seperated and I was worried." A swift frown came to the Aquam's face as she turned her odd white gaze to the readhead beside the bath. "But a collar, Mariah? How truly horrible for you. I hope we can find a way to remove it."

Mariah nodded once, looking quite serious.

Frowning, Jeb realized that an Aquam at their meeting place was too coincidental; Raw shouldn't have gotten to Mount Runcible for two days at the least. And didn't Arista mention _two_ viewers at the academy? The resistance leader felt those two must be Raw and the boy, Kalm, stopping to rest on their way north.

"Arista? Why are you here?" he asked softly, watching her in sudden wariness. He walked back to the tub and squatted but remained poised for action.

As if called by his recent thoughts of them, Raw and Kalm walked almost silently into the room, but the Tin Man did no more than nod to acknowledge them. He kept his sharp gaze on this stranger.

Arista didn't seem to take offense though she stopped smiling and laughing. With a measuring look over the young gillikanese man, the dark-haired woman said "I've come to talk to Jeb."

Stiffening, the man shook his head. "How do you know my name? Who sent you?" Distrust laced Jeb's words, though Raw gave Arista a friendly smile of welcome.

Leaning forward, Arista studied Jeb. "You are Jeb who leads the resistance forces?" She tilted her head. "You do not look much like your sire, do you?"

He frowned. "Yes, I'm Jeb Cain," he spoke slowly, cautiously, ignoring her observation. He'd always looked more like his mother. "What do you want with me?"

She slipped her fingers down her dress front, causing him to flush though he did not look away. Pulling out something small and colorful, she held it up, offering it to him. When Jeb took it, she said, "I was told to tell you _'Sawhorse.'_ This is from your father as proof."

The dark toy tin horse looked old, worn, and very familiar, drawing Jeb's mind back to the day it had been made . . . and named.

_"And that's the coronet," Adora Cain used the tip of her thin feather to point out a section right above the little tin horse's hoof. "The hoof is made of horn, like a cow's horns. The coronet is the place where the skin meets the horn." She dipped the barest tip of her feather into the pot of charcoal paint and ran the tiny brush lightly over the toy's hoof. Her long dark-blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a simple ribbon, as always. She squinted her blue eyes to see the tiny details._

_Beside her, five annual old Jeb clutched the wooden table with unusual thin hands, blue-grey eyes wide as he watched her careful work. He hadn't taken his eyes off the entire painting process; he'd been equally fascinated when his father had molded the tin figurine. Every time she applied color to the toy, her son asked questions, curiosity bubbling over as he watched the wonderful toy taking shape. "What's that? Why's it that color? What if it breaks off?"_

_Some of his questions had verged on the ridiculous, but his mother smiled and answered each one with the patience borne of motherhood._

_Adora continued to paint with the dark smoky color, making sure to coat each hoof completely. She bent over the table, on the edge of her wooden chair, leaning close to the candle she favored as a light source while painting. "How many will this be, Jeb?"_

_With a look akin to horror, the boy with dark sandy hair and grey-blue eyes realized he couldn't recall the exact number of toy horses he owned. He straightened and pushed away from the table, rocking the paint pot so that Adora had to reach out and grab it to prevent it from toppling. Ignorant of the near disaster, the boy ran to his loft ladder and scaled it in seconds; Adora's uncle always claimed Jeb would make a fine sailor with his ability to climb and fearlessness of heights, but the boy planned to be a Tin Man like his father._

_Once in his loft Jeb headed straight to his small wooden toy chest and flung open the lid. He reached in and grabbed one toy horse after another, lining them up on the bare boards of his floor. With the final horse placed Jeb turned to his line-up and began to count. He counted a second time. Confident of the number, he practically threw himself down his ladder and sprinted to his mother's side, this time careful not to knock the table or his mother. "That one's five."_

_"Well, then your collection is the finest I've seen. Even finer that Father's was when he was little." She smiled at the boy, her hand never slowing in its delicate task. "What will this one be named?"_

_The boy stood, thoughtful, watching the tiny strokes of the feather. He contemplated the name he'd choose, silent for at least ten minutes. Finally, slowly, Jeb looked at his mother and bit his lower lip._

_She smiled encouragingly at the boy, pausing in her painting. "What is it, Jeb? Have you thought of a name?"_

_He shook his head. "I'm not naming it. I want . . ." He broke off as the front door swung open, admitting Wyatt: tall, solidly built, with intense pale blue eyes and light blond hair._

_Adora gave her husband a welcoming smile. She watched as Wyatt hauled Jeb into his strong arms, giving the boy a hug and kiss. "Hello, Mister Cain," she called._

_Thrilled to be cuddled by his large bear of a father, Jeb threw his small arms around the man's neck. Too soon the boy found himself lowered to the floor once more._

_Crystal blue eyes seemed to light up and Wyatt turned to Adora. "Mrs. Cain. I see the horse is nearly finished." He kept Jeb tucked securely against his hip with one strong arm as he gestured with his other hand. "She looks good."_

_Jeb tugged his father's sleeve, interrupting the adults. "You name her."_

_"Me?" Surprise lit his father's light, intense eyes._

_Adora smiled, apparently at the surprise in her husband's voice. Seeming to catch onto her son's generosity before Wyatt, the blonde woman dipped her feather in the coal paint again. "I think he's giving you this mare, Sweetheart. I told him his collection was finer than yours." With one last daub, Adora placed her feather on the edge of her mixing pallet then arched her back, whimpering at the twinges and aches caused by the long held position._

_Their son smiled at his father and hugged him around the neck in a chokehold again. "She'll keep you safe like in the stories."_

_The look of tenderness on Wyatt's face was priceless. Adora smiled and said, "that would be Sawhorse. But he was made of wood, not tin."_

_"Sawhorse." Wyatt laughed, hugging his son, able to ignore the choking hold from the boy. "I like it. I'll call her 'Sawhorse' and keep her in my gun box so she can protect my gun and badge."_

_Jeb nodded, bouncing in his father's arms with every bob of his head. "Right. Sawhorse."_

_Wyatt's crystal blue eyes met Adora's darker cerulean over their son's head, and she returned his smile._

Running his fingers over a toy he hadn't seen in thirteen annuals, feeling the smoothed and painted sides, Jeb's fingers caught on something. He frowned, turning the toy over. Blue-grey eyes widened. A bullet had impacted the horse's flank and remained embedded there. "Father was shot?" he breathed in shock, barely registering the fact that the tin horse had blocked the bullet.

A soft splash drew the young man's attention and he looked at the hipbath's resident, Arista. She smiled back at the resistance leader, nodding. He leaned towards her. "How? When? Is he okay?"

The Aquam woman nodded again. "He fell into the Northern Ice Lake last moon cycle, near the double eclipse. When I healed him, his chest had been impacted and bruised badly. Now he is very well. I _completely_ healed him."

"You healed father, too?" Jeb sank to a seat on the floor, too many shocks finally overwhelming him. Slowly he asked, "can Aquam heal everyone? I heard they're . . . uh . . . poisonous."

Arista sank under the bath water again then came up with a wide smile, revealing double rows of sharp teeth . . . like some predator's grin. "We are toxic, not poisonous or corrosive. We cause neurological and hematological damage to those unprotected. But, if you have magic, it can protect you." She blinked her luminescent white eyes and Jeb jumped slightly, noting a set of inner eyelids blinking as well. "We can see magical auras and so know whom we may touch."

Jeb nodded. "Then I'm magical? And Father is?"

"Ah," Arista nodded, still smiling. "You did not know. Well, now you do. But," her smile faded, teeth once more hidden behind pale blue-tinted lips, "I have brought messages."

Mariah sank down to one knee next to the hipbath but carefully kept her hands to herself, presumably to avoid activating her cursed collar.

Arista gave her friend a smile. "First, troops of the darkness witch have attacked and been repelled by Aquam." She nodded a greeting as Raw and Kalm came to squat nearby as well. "The Spiritus Clan sent Mariah to aid me on my quest when my companion took ill. While on the borders of Finnaqua, looking for entrance to the Under Realm, we were attacked."

Turning steel-blue eyes on his red-headed companion, Jeb softly said "Spiritus . . . no wonder you can't talk."

The muted woman nodded once, gesturing to the collar. In agreement, Jeb nodded. "Your magic . . ." but he fell quiet and turned back to Arista.

She didn't seem to mind their sidebar conversation. "When we were attacked, I was separated from Mariah so took to the waterways, which brought me to the Western Tower. There I made contact with your father and his wife . . ."

"Wife!" Jeb's voice rose in shock. "When did he . . ." the young leader clamped his mouth shut. A handfasting in front of an administrator could have taken only minutes; his father could easily have married at any time yesterday. Jeb had no trouble figuring out who Wyatt Cain would have married: Princess Dorothy Gale.

As the other four watched him, Jeb struggled with the idea of his father remarrying only four months after Mother's death. Jeb reminded himself that Wyatt hadn't known when Adora was killed; he'd thought she was dead for eight annuals. His father deserved to be happy, and he had been quite obviously attached to the woman he called DG. Jeb had noticed the emotions Wyatt had tried to hide, first when DG had gone missing then when they'd made plans to separate during the infiltration while in the final battle with the witch. At least Jeb didn't dislike DG; he just didn't know the young princess. Surprise widened his eyes as he realized his father would now carry the title of _'prince'_ or _'consort.'_

Finally Arista interrupted Jeb's thoughts with her soft echoing voice. "They're prisoners of the Long Coats there, as is Ambrose. They need someone to parlay with Fortitudo Clan in the east."

The royal Tin Man nodded, trying not to worry about the prisoners he could not spare time to help yet. "I can do that," he volunteered, pushing personal problems aside. He'd deal with his father's new marriage later . . . after the Clans were contacted and the prisoners were safe.

"Not alone," Arista reminded him. "I can go with you."

Mariah shook her head and tapped her own chest.

Everyone looked at her, but she couldn't explain why she should go instead of Arista. No one seemed able to figure a way to help her.

Kalm straightened his back and ventured an opinion. "Arista spy at Tower?"

As Mariah nodded once, Arista's eyes lit in apparent excitement. Jeb and Raw nodded their agreement.

"And help keep the resistance informed. Once my father and the others can escape, Ambrose can see to those collars." Jeb gestured to Mariah next to him.

"Agreed," Arista smiled. "I will need a message taken to Lady Rimi in the north to let her know what has been occurring." Raw patted his chest but didn't speak; the Aquam seemed to understand anyway and nodded. "Then we should begin. I will need to rest longer from my healing efforts but will go back to the Tower tomorrow early.

Standing and offering a hand up to Mariah, Jeb nodded. "We'll get provisions and head out soon." He studied the others. "Good journey." The Tin Man turned and walked over to the comatose canine. "Be safe, Toto. I'll help find a cure when I return." He sighed then turned and retrieved his sword from the nightstand by his pallet. He sheathed it and strode from the makeshift infirmary.

Mariah nodded to the group and followed her travelling companion out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	25. Healing an Ally or Helping an Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Jeb receives the message from Wyatt and begins a new quest, taking Mariah with him. Arista becomes a spy.

The sound of soft splashing from the nearby river woke Azkadellia from a fitful sleep. She lay on her left side, right arm cuddled carefully against her chest, her back warmed by Dylan's. With a sigh, Az pushed up from the hard ground with a wince. Behind her, Dylan rolled over and jumped to his feet, but Az remained sitting for a moment longer, trying to thrust the eerie nightmares from her memories.

"Let me check your arm, Az," Dylan's voice sounded gruff, his manner distant. Squatting down, her companion carefully pulled the sling from her arm and unbound the splint, checking over the injured limb. "Swelling's down, bruising's up," he murmured then wrapped the splinting tight once more. "Might be a bad sprain after all."

Az watched her hands rather than his face and the silence stretched between them. Once her arm had been tended she slid it back into the silk sling. Letting Dylan help her up, Az looked over their horses. "We should be on our way. It'll take at least until zenith to get to the crack."

The resistance fighter turned Tin Man nodded and quickly stowed their gear, handing some bread to Az for breakfast. Soon, the pair were ready to leave, Dylan offering Az one of the full canteens with a single pain pill, which she did not refuse.

Glancing towards the not-so-barren fields across the road, Az stiffened. "Dylan," she placed her hand carefully on his sleeve. He turned to look. Several papay were near the six healed trees, gathering fruits and clicking and whistling to each other.

One papay, larger than the others and a greying greenish color, stood between the gatherers and the gilikenese pair, watching with bright, attentive eyes. Under the head, apparently implanted in the front of its thorax, sat an iridescent pink stone the size of a large man's fist. The papay seemed not to be bothered by this stone, and it flashed in the morning sunlight.

Slowly, Az lifted her good left hand and a white-yellow light traced the Lux Crest in the air, leaving an energy pattern hanging before them. The papay bowed its head slightly and the stone flashed brightly with a pink energy, scarlet sparks weaving through it. The little-seen symbol of the papay traced in the air, hanging before that of the Lux. Slowly, both passcodes shimmered then dissipated until finally the energy patterns had ceased.

Az blinked and frowned softly. The papay turned and followed the gatherers further into the wasted orchard.

Behind her Dylan softly said, "was that Somniabunt, the papay elder?"

"I think so," Aze replied. With a deep sigh, she turned and smoothed her hand down her horse's flank. "Let's mount, Dylan. If we hurry, we can make Finnaqua shortly after zenith."

With a nod he helped her mount the side saddle then swung himself onto his horse, and the pair continued their journey. Shortly, they moved into a trot then a canter, the smooth gait somewhat bearable on Az's arm; the medicine helped, of course. She continued to tolerate their quick pace for several hours, though riding one handed was taking its toll. Fortunately, they approached the Crack in the O.Z. as the suns were reaching their highest point: zenith. Az looked towards the rise and nodded to Dylan as they halted.

"I'm not sure I can ride the bridge, Dylan. Maybe we should walk?" she spoke softly.

Dylan slipped from his horse and helped her down. He gathered his reins, handing Az hers, and turned towards the rise of the roadway leading to the bridge. She walked beside him, neither speaking. Turning her head, she sighed then looked forward. "Dylan . . ."

"Shh . . ." Dylan, touched her shoulder and gestured towards the bridge down below.

Two pair of Long Coats stood, monitoring either end of the bridge, dressed in their traditional leather armor and long dusters, armed with heavy rifles. Obviously whoever took the tower had also taken the bridge and possibly other significant areas around the O.Z. With the threat of the enemy between them and Finnaqua, Az felt uncertain what she or Dylan could do.

The four guards hadn't noticed them; however, as they were turned to watch a lone figure crossing the long bridge, about half-way across the span.

Just shy of six feet tall, he was whipcord thin, athletic, with dark blond hair falling over his eyes. Dressed in black trousers and boots with an obviously new dark leather coat, he had a small pack carried in one hand. Something about his gait appeared unsteady even from a distance. The man stumbled, causing the four guarding Long Coats to straighten restlessly, watching him intently.

Az's heart constricted and she gripped her horse's reins more tightly in her good right hand. Instant recognition came to her and she whispered "Zero . . . he's alive!"

Dylan put a hand on her shoulder, his grip tight. In a low warning he said "don't call out, Az . . . they'll see us. Let's get undercover."

She shook her head. "He's returned, Dylan . . . and he's hurt."

Harshly, Dylan hissed, "he's one of them, Az!"

Looking at her Tin Man, Az's eyes filled with the hurt and anger she felt. In defense of her long-time friend, she said, "no . . . he's not. They have no reason to touch him yet, but he's on my side not theirs."

The resistance fighter whirled her around to glared into her eyes. "He's _their_ leader . . ."

"No, Dylan, he's _my_ soldier," the princess retorted. She knew the wisdom of waiting, however, and lead her horse into the nearby trees, followed by the obviously disapproving Dylan. From their hiding place, they continued to watch the former Long Coat commander as he painfully staggered to the end of the bridge.

The closer he came towards the hiding pair, the more clearly his injuries could be seen. Zero's lip was split, his eye blackened and swollen, his face cut and bruised. He limped, favoring his right leg, and one arm curled around his torso as if protecting damaged ribs. All together, Zero looked as if he'd barely escaped a recent beating.

The two Long Coats came to attention, but Zero barely paid attention. One of the guards stepped towards the injured man. "Commander?" the Long Coat's voice sounded uncertain.

Zero glanced up, his steel grey eyes smoky with pain. A frown flitted over his features and he called "Out of my way, Sergeant." Zero's voice trembled in pain, but his attitude bespoke pure command. The effect was immediately lost when his eyes suddenly rolled back into his head and he slumped, apparently passing out, the startled sergeant catching him.

Az hurried from the trees, knowing she had to help Zero as he'd helped her over the long annuals. Leading her horse, she ignored Dylan's vehement "Damn!" behind her. Stepping over to the guards, she ordered in a crisp tone, rarely questioned in the last eight annuals, "Get him up on the horse and tie him there."

They froze in apparent confusion, but Dylan stopped right behind her. "You heard her!" he snapped in a powerful voice, much different from his own soft tones. The commanding manner startled Az but she gave nothing away, merely frowning at the Long Coats to emphasize her seriousness.

Long used to obeying, especially obeying Princess Azkadellia and her royal guard, Zero, the men hurried to heave the unconscious man onto the back of the horse Dylan led forward; the princess's lady's side saddle would have been too difficult to secure the man to. The sergeant held the limp commander on the horse as his companion retrieved rope from some supplies they had on hand. The pair securely tied Zero sitting up on Dylan's saddle, but not painfully tight; they treated him as friend, not foe.

Dylan quickly aided Az back onto her horse and began leading his own mount after her on the bridge, walking sedately. She couldn't protest, despite her exhaustion; it would look suspicious if the princess walked rather than rode.

"Wait!" the sergeant seemed to realize that this pair should be challenged. As they stopped and looked at him, he cleared his throat. "Identification . . . please?" he added.

Stiffening and looking down on the guards, Az replied at her frostiest "are you blind, Sergeant?" Her heart hammered in her chest as she hoped these men would continue to obey out of habit.

The sergeant swallowed noticeably then straightened, "No, your highness! Proceed."

She nodded once and kicked the horse into a steady walk, followed by Dylan. As they got further away, they could hear the junior man ask his sergeant "does General Randu need to be told?"

"If he wanted her as prisoner," the higher ranking man snapped, "do you think she'd be strolling around giving orders? Besides, the commander's with her!"

"Unconscious . . ." the junior returned, before Az and Dylan were fully out of earshot, making Az's insides clench again. Neither came after the princess; however, so she continued on her way as if she were not a fugitive on the run kidnapping the former head of the royal guard.

After a long time Az and Dylan approached the second set of guards, and Zero began to wake up. "What . . . hell!" he started to struggle against his bonds.

Reining in next to his mount, Az called out, "calm down, Zero. You'll hurt yourself worse."

He stilled at the sound of her voice. "Sorceress?"

"Quiet, Zero," she commanded and he fell obediently silent and still.

Az silently thanked his long years of soldiering for that acquiescence.

One of the new pair of bridge guards asked "do you need help, your highness? I thought the commander might be hurt, but he didn't want help when he crossed."

"Never does," the other guard muttered then flushed when Dylan glared at him for all the world as if he had the authority of rulership backing him. As far as the Long Coats probably felt, Dylan did: Az rode right beside him as he walked.

The newly made Tin Man kept his opinion of Zero to himself and answered on behalf of the princess. "I have the commander, Private. Make way."

Obediently, the guards let them pass without further problems.

Relieved, neither Az nor Dylan spoke as they made their way on the track until well away from the bridge. She knew Zero was awake by his harsh, pained breathing, but he didn't protest his confinement as the trio continued down the road.

"Who's Randu?" Dylan finally broke the silence.

"My second in command," Zero groaned out switching to a growl so weak a kitten would have been more fierce. "Untie me." He centered his grey gaze on Az's travelling companion. What he lacked in strength of voice, he made up for in sheer force of presence.

"No," Dylan responded just as imperious as the bound man.

"Dylan," Az said, her voice soft. She met and held his eyes.

Zero's head snapped up and back as if he'd been jolted and he studied the princess carefully. He looked back and forth between the woman and other man, not interrupting, his thoughts hidden behind confused, pain-filled eyes.

With almost a growl, Dylan finally turned and untied the man on the horse. "Keep your hands visible," Dylan ordered.

"And don't get down," Az added, drawing surprised looks from both men. She gathered her reins in her good hand and sat straighter. "We'll discuss this when we get off the road . . . and where you've been, Zero." She sighed but studied the way ahead, trying to put Zero's condition temporarily from her mind. "First we need somewhere safe to go."

Sounding slightly puzzled, Zero gestured off the track. "Behind a white elm. There's a safe place there . . . I think it's still safe."

Az turned to look at her oldest friend and protector. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head and clutched the pommel on the saddle. "It's Cain's house. Last I was there, he wasn't."

Dylan suddenly smiled as relief crossed Az's face. Zero frowned, looking puzzled. The young woman didn't leave him confused.

"The Cains are both Tin Men now. They're on our side."

" _Our_ side?" Zero asked. "Tin Men?"

Az nodded. "Since the witch is gone, I've switched sides." She looked at Zero. "If that's a problem, I can send you back to the bridge."

Turning the horse he led off the track, Dylan interrupted. "Not here, Az. We need to get to that house before we talk."

Nodding her agreement, Az guided her horse to follow Dylan's, letting Zero direct them. He didn't seem to protest accompanying them, despite their unexplained loyalty change. Fortunately only a short time later the trio came upon the cabin with the small grave beside it.

Leaving Zero in the saddle, Dylan stepped over to help Az dismount then went back to aid Zero. He had to catch the injured man, looking startled at the apparent weakness of the former Long Coat commander. Despite his own illness, Dylan helped Zero into the cabin, followed by Az, then silently went back out to apparently care for the horses.

Inside, turning and laying her hand on Zero's arm, Az softly said, "sit, Zero." She felt shocked seeing his bruised and bloody face up close. "Where have you been? What's happened to you?" She used part of her sling padding to try and stem the blood from his lip.

He caught her undamaged wrist, studying her eyes. "She's really gone?" he sounded troubled. At her nod, Zero let her go and sank onto a wooden straight-backed chair. He groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Cain said as much . . ."

The door opening drew their attention, Zero lifting an exhausted looking countenance. Dylan strode in and shut the simple barrier. He put down the saddlebags by the door then crossed his arms, frowning, and stood in front of the only visible exit.

Az once more turned to Zero, kneeling next to him. "What happened?"

On a low sound deep in his throat, eyes wary, Zero answered. "I caught the girl's accomplices in the Realm of the Unwanted and arrested them. On the surface, we were ambushed by resistance fighters." Looking hesitant, apparently reminding himself the witch was gone and Az probably wouldn't be sucking out his soul due to failure, Zero sighed then continued. "My troop was captured. Finally, Cain locked me in an iron suit. He told his kid they'd let me out if they defeated the witch."

Zero eased out of the heavy protective coat he'd taken from Wyatt's closet; the black undershirt clung to his wounds, kept there by dried blood clots, though the gashes reopened and closed over and over again. "When he let me out, he said the witch was gone." Grey eyes puzzled, Zero shook his head. "He left me there and just walked away."

"That was a month ago, Zero. Where have . . ."

"A month?" he interrupted in shock.

Quickly, not answering, Az rose to her feet, using her good hand to balance. The man's confusion and long-term unhealed wounds told her all she needed to know. His admission to being locked in one of the torture suits confirmed it. "Dylan, help me. He's dying." She felt sheer desperation, knowing that Zero had needed serious magical help for as long as a month. She felt wonder that the man hadn't bled to death sooner . . . he must have some hidden magic of his own that fought the twisted curse wracking his body.

"What can _we_ do?" Dylan asked, sounding reluctant but walking over to aid her in pulling the crusted, dirty shirt from the commander's torso. Blood freely flowed and Zero paled, though he didn't make a sound.

Gesturing at the kitchen pump, Az said "we need to wash these wounds and dress them. I can reverse the suit's magic . . . fools!" She shook her head, anger vibrating through her at the botched use of a device little understood. "The suit needs Death Magic to seal someone healthy in a stasis state, healing wounds on an unhealthy person. Without a Death Mage from Mortem, the suit's magic is unfinished and deadly. Whatever state he was in going into the suit becomes nearly permanent upon coming out." She turned to Dylan. "He'll bleed to death, never healing, if he doesn't get help."

With a nod, Dylan pumped water into a nearby bucket and found towels. He brought both to Az and placed them to hand then started helping her clean the wounds of the man he apparently considered a deadly enemy. "Jeb keeps that suit around to remind everyone that his father was killed in one for fighting the witch . . . of course, we found out later that Wyatt survived." Dylan glowered down at Zero.

Zero glared defiantly back, making no excuses or apologies for his past actions.

Also not apologetic, Dylan leaned close to Zero, planting both hands on the chair arms. Slate grey eyes meeting identical steel-colored, Dylan growled, " and finally sending that woman to kill Adora Cain . . ."

"What!" Zero's eyes narrowed and he tried to surge to his feet but Dylan suddenly shifted his grip to the other man's arms, holding him in the chair. "What . ."

"Stop, Dylan!" Az ordered. "Stop badgering him." To prevent Zero from retaliating, she said, "and you too, Zero. We have few enough allies since Randu took over." She had been able to figure out just who attacked the House of Gale from those random comments by the bridge guards.

The former Long Coat commander turned his attention to the princess. "Randu?" His voice once again whispered with exhaustion, laced with confusion.

Slowly, Dylan released Zero's arms, genuine worry reluctantly creeping into his own voice. "What the hell?"

Shaking her head, Az handed over the wet bloody towel to Dylan. "It's the incomplete suit magic. It mixes the brain unless the proper Mortem spells are used to counter it. Sit still, Zero."

Grey eyes widened in definite fear, but the former commander stayed absolutely still. It was testament to either his trust of Az or his long years of strict self-discipline that he didn't run as far as he could from Az's death magic; the witch had been well known for her twisted use of the magic to kill her enemies or those she considered failures.

Sadly, Az felt it must be the latter. Zero had ever been a soldier, even before beginning training at the age fifteen. Lifting her hands, ignoring her painful left wrist, she placed a hand on either side of Zero's battered face. She met his eyes, impressed that the frightened, confused man didn't look away, didn't close his own eyes. Drawing a slow breath, she moved her hands in a caressing motion, never touching Zero, but so close she could feel the heat of the suit fever. She hoped they'd be able to help him once she used the reversal.

A soft glow of black energy shot through with what looked like silver lightning began at Az's palms. Slowly the glow became a mist then a fog. It enveloped Zero's head and crept down his torso to cover even his extremities. The silver sparks intensified; a sudden bright flash temporarily blinded the trio as Zero let out a loud scream then collapsed, unconscious once more, falling against Az.

Dylan caught her as she staggered under Zero's weight and her own exhaustion. "This better have been worth your strength, Az," he growled in her ear.

She ignored the comment, pushing Zero back into the chair, then let Dylan help her into the other wooden chair. "Is he breathing?" worry overshadowed the exhilarating feeling of power from tapping a different clan's energy.

Dylan lay his fingers on the pulse point in Zero's neck. After a heartbeat, he said "Yes. He's alive." The steady rise and fall of the patient's chest let them know he wasn't in distress.

Az reached out to touch Zero's shoulder, wincing at the sight of those horrible injuries, but relieved that the fever had left with the appropriate spell. "Please tend him?"

Nodding, Dylan pulled some bandages and medicine from Az's saddlebag then squatted next to the unconscious man. Dylan sighed and looked at Az. "What if he's addicted to the power the witch let him wield? He may join Randu."

She shook her head. "He'll stay true, Dylan."

Crossing his arms with a glare, Dylan stiffened and ground out "if he turns on us, I'll kill him. No second chances."

Stunned, she opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. She puzzled through the implications, both of Zero's presence and Dylan's prediction. Finally, bowing her head, hazel eyes pained, Azkadellia slowly, softly, said, "if he turns on us, _I'll_ kill him, Dylan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	26. Tables Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Az and Dylan make their way south over the Crack in the O.Z., rescuing an injured Zero along the bridge. Az heals Zero, much to Dylan's disgust.

Wyatt lay quietly, gently stroking DG's soft hair where it spread over her back and shoulder.

After crying herself out the night before, the princess had drifted off in his arms. Not wanting to set her off again, the Tin Man had slid them both into bed and pulled the covers over them. Then he simply held her as she slept, troubled by her break down. He'd seen the brave, resourceful woman cry only one other time: when she found out she had been the cause of her sister's possession. Listening to her quiet breathing, Wyatt had drifted off to sleep, barely waking when Randu's men came for the tray and lamp. Finally, the former blacksmith let himself fall asleep, still holding DG protectively against his side.

And he'd woken to the soft spring dawn and DG in his arms.

He stroked strong fingers through the soft tresses he'd released from the bride plait the night before. To see her in such a style all day had been difficult; knowing he'd been the one to put her hair in that style had been even harder. He had no right to even consider such a relationship with the princess. Wyatt wondered who she had worn the original suitor's braid for . . . and why the man was not there to protect her.

The door opening drew his attention and Wyatt frowned as a pair of Long Coats brought the covered breakfast tray into the room. Watching intently, Wyatt slid his free arm down and over DG's waist, feeling her soft skin with rough fingers; her shirt had ridden up in their sleep. He stilled his hand, watching the two guards with intense blue eyes.

When the men left, they locked the door but no sound of their footsteps could be heard: the pair was obviously spying on Wyatt and DG. Like the night before, DG woke up as soon as the guards had left, but this time she remained lying down, her cheek on his bare chest and her hand on his stomach.

"Wyatt?" her voice sounded raspy from crying and sleep.

"Right here, Deeg," he answered. He listened for the guards to leave but knew they continued to eavesdrop on the imprisoned pair.

Amusement tinged DG's voice as she said "I would hope that was you. I was just wondering," the amusement dropped away, "what duties the general will have for you today."

"I don't know," he answered.

There it was: the sound of the two Long Coats walking away. Wyatt stayed still, listening for a long while before finally taking his hand from DG's hip, lightly flushing.

When DG merely sat up without comment, surprise shot through the man. _'Damn, the kid's probably too innocent to realize how compromised she'd be if anyone finds us in bed,'_ he thought, ruthlessly tamping down on his wayward desire. She wasn't his; he had no right to feel desire for the younger woman. _'She's got a suitor, Cain,'_ he reminded himself. _'And she's a princess . . . you're just a blacksmith in a temporary position.'_ Unfortunately, the reminder wasn't helping the inner turmoil he felt.

Wyatt slid from the bed and headed towards the armoire for a fresh uniform. Behind him DG unlocked the washroom and went in. Relieved to be further from the object of his misplaced desire, Wyatt quickly changed into the uniform trousers and an undershirt, picking up the belt just as the washroom door opened once more.

At least she wore the dressing robe.

"You know, I really hate that they just come right in without knocking," she said while looking over the tray.

With a nod, silently agreeing with her sentiment, Wyatt slipped past her into the bathroom to shave and relieve himself before coming back out to grab a uniform shirt and pull it on. "Hurry up and dress and we can have breakfast. I don't know when he'll show up for me."

When she didn't respond, Wyatt looked up from buttoning his shirt, frowning. "Deeg?"

She looked troubled. "I don't like the idea that he'll separate us." The princess lifted worried blue eyes to meet the Tin Man's. "I don't trust him."

He nodded, tucking in his shirt and fastening his belt, then moved to the chair, retrieving his uniform jacket as DG started pulling out clothes. "Neither do I." Running one hand through his blond hair, Wyatt picked up the tray. "I'll get started on the bandages. We'll eat when you're ready."

DG nodded to him and Wyatt walked to the connecting lady's room where he could tend their hidden patients.

As soon as he entered the other bedroom, Wyatt placed the tray on the vanity and turned towards the pair on the bed. Glitch looked pale, but he'd always been pale as far as Wyatt could tell. Lying beside the royal advisor, Leona appeared flushed and restless, her hands smoothing and re-smoothing over the blankets. Worry shot through the Tin Man and he collected the medicine kit then stepped to Leona's side.

"Hey, Leona . . ." he kept his voice low and steady, "you feeling okay?" Wyatt helped the woman to lean on his strong arm while he carefully unbandaged the nude woman's injured back and shoulder-blade. A second pair of hands reached over to aid him and Wyatt glanced briefly at Ambrose, letting him take over as Wyatt continued to support the injured princess.

The other man worked quickly as he released the bandages and checked the infected wound, ignoring his own obviously still injured, painful head. Leona's wounds appeared less red, less swollen and hot. Ambrose nodded and met Wyatt's concerned gaze. "A little better," the advisor stated, and the Tin Man nodded his agreement.

Working quietly and steadily, the pair cleaned and rebandaged Leona's shoulder then cared for her other injuries, using up the last of the available bandages from Jeb's kit. They finished as DG walked in. Thankfully she carried a fresh nightgown for her cousin to wear. Wyatt hoped Leona wouldn't get tangled in the long folds of material; she moved restlessly in her fevered state.

When Leona had been seen to, Wyatt turned to care for Ambrose, but the advisor waved a long-fingered hand. He gave an airy smile and said "I feel fine. We can do me for lunch." At Leona's weak chuckle, Ambrose flushed bright red and began to stammer.

DG shook her head, hair down and sweeping over her shoulders. "Forget about it, Ambrose. Let's eat."

As the quartet ate, Wyatt pushed both small cups of juice to Leona. "You're not eating much. At least have something."

She grimaced but took the first cup to drink the orange juice. Unfortunately, Leona had barely raised the cup when she paled, wrinkled her nose, and dropped the cup, juice splashing Ambrose and DG as well as the bed covers. Collapsing against the headboard, the older woman panted, obviously weak and miserable.

Jumping up, DG groaned but reached carefully for her cousin, apparently more concerned for the ill woman than the ruined meal or dirty bed. "Oh, Leona!" she slid an arm around her. "C'mon. I'll get you cleaned up."

With the younger woman's help, Leona managed to slide out of bed.

Wyatt watched the women make their awkward way into the washroom and he sighed. "I'll get rid of the tray and get her some fresh clothes," he told the other man. "Then I'll come clean you up."

At Ambrose's nod, Wyatt grabbed the disgusting, unfinished meal and made his way by the two women in the washroom and into his temporary bedroom. As he moved to place the tray near the hall door, he froze at the sound of a key in the lock. _'Of all the lousy timing!'_

The door swung open to reveal three Long Coats rather than the normal contingent of Randu and two underlings. Wyatt frowned and held out the orange juice soaked tray, stalling for time and information. "My wife got sick." He let his eyes rove the three strangers; none had come up previously. "Where's the general?"

"Waiting for us to report for duty, Lieutenant." The man glanced at the tray with a disgusted sneer. "With child is she? A simple potion can take care of that . . ." As Wyatt stiffened, offended at the suggestion of an abortion despite DG's non-pregnant state, the soldier shrugged and looked into the cold ice-blue eyes. The Long Coat seemed interested in the topic but never took the soiled tray, "Isn't she supposed to be that dead princess?"

Not too sure what to make of the question, Wyatt pushed down his anger and frowned even more. He decided to answer the inquiries his own way. "We hope she's pregnant," he offered a worried look, trying for his guise of over-whelmed low-ranker. "And the queen . . . uh . . . former queen said she's the missing princess." As if he thought these men really believed DG might be a corpse, he added, "but she never died. She got really sick and the . . . former queen sent her to get better . . ."

"Come on, Lieutenant," the Long Coat ordered, gesturing towards the open hall door.

Wyatt stepped into the hall, still carrying the unfinished, destroyed meal. He watched as the spokesman locked the door and turned to lead them downstairs. The small group began walking.

"Why wouldn't she . . . the queen . . . use a medico or the court advisor to heal the princess?" The leader asked, stopping just in front of the next door over.

xxx

As soon as Wyatt passed by, DG let out a whoosh of air. Waking up for the second time in the man's arms had felt natural, but she had to watch that. With the provincial attitudes in this place, DG feared Wyatt would feel cornered into something stupidly noble.

Shaking herself from the annoying trend of thoughts, DG ran water into the hipbath, privately glad the tower had running water instead of outdoor latrines and hand-carried buckets. As the tub filled, the younger woman stripped out of her soiled robe then helped Leona out of the nightgown. Grabbing a washcloth, DG carefully soaped the soft material, eyeing her cousin's wounds, especially those bandaged only that morning.

The sound of voices from her bedroom drew DG's attention. She didn't dare leave the weakened Leona in the tub, but that closed door and the running water masked whatever was said. She knew what was happening nonetheless: they had come for Wyatt.

"Perfect timing," she groaned then started carefully bathing her pale, feverish cousin, leaving the soaked bandages to be changed last. She'd have to cut up those shirts to replace these linens.

"Well, if you insist," Leona sounded puzzled, tired. "But good timing or not, it was unintentional."

DG focused on Leona's words and shook her head. "I didn't mean you dropping the juice. I meant Randu coming to get Wyatt while I'm busy." She frowned then added, "Actually, I was being sarcastic, Leona."

"Of course you were," Leona's tone held no censure; she sounded rather matter-of-fact.

The door of the other room closing signaled that Randu's men had taken Wyatt off. DG continued carefully washing Leona, fighting the need to run after the Long Coats and get Wyatt back. Besides being the exact reckless action Wyatt always seemed to accuse her of, DG knew such stupidity could leave Leona and Ambrose unprotected and very vulnerable. As much as she chafed at such a timid role, DG had to play the part of obedient housewife . . . and trust Randu would returned Wyatt.

Hearing a sound from the lady's room where Ambrose still needed her, DG frowned. She opened her mouth to call out but stopped, recalling that Randu's men had a habit of eavesdropping, and she hadn't heard them walk away with the sound of the water. DG turned off the water deciding there was plenty to clean her cousin in.

Leona gasped softly. "Check on him, DG. I can wait."

"And let you drown?" DG shot back, worry making her snap at the sick woman.

Lifting dulled blue eyes, the older woman groaned. "Then help me out of this bath. Check on Wyatt, DG, if only to show them you care about him."

Unable to argue with such logic, DG heaved Leona from the hipbath and onto the floor. Knowing the guards would have locked her bedroom door, DG headed into the other room and over to the nightstand. She grabbed the key out of the fedora and Wyatt's revolver then headed for the hall door. Carefully she listened at the door, hearing voices.

Wyatt's voice carried well, as if he didn't fear being overheard. "I don't know why she didn't heal her . . . I never asked."

A second male voice, this one unfamiliar, responded, "Well, looks like she got all better now." After a slight pause, he added, "Too bad she's all alone now."

Something thudded dully, like skin on skin, right before a heavy object hit the door between the lady's room and the hallway. DG hurried to unlock the door as more sounds of a beating broke through her increasing fear. Her hands shook and she jumped, almost dropping the key, as the door vibrated a second time.

A long-fingered hand gently took the key and slid it into the lock, twisting. Ambrose, still in the juice-drenched striped pajamas, pushed open the door, grunting with the effort to thrust something heavy holding the door from the other side. He shook in his effort, since he was far from healed after his surgery two nights before.

DG joined Ambrose, and together they heaved the door open enough for the young woman to slide through.

In the hallway, DG barely registered two Long Coats gripping Wyatt's arms, a long-handled knife lying abandoned and bloody on the floor. A third Long Coat beat Wyatt repeatedly with the butt of his rifle. Sudden anger swelled to match DG's fear, and the princess raised the revolver, aiming, hands steady. She didn't even pause, flicking the safety off, cocking the hammer, and squeezing off a round right over the attacker's shoulder.

"Let him go." DG's voice rang with self-assurance. "I don't miss."

The commander froze when the bullet passed so close to his ear. Slowly, he straightened, watching DG warily. He lowered his rifle and stepped one pace away from the battered Tin Man. His flunkies heaved Wyatt towards DG and backed away. When the pair reached for their guns, DG cocked the hammer once more and aimed at the commander. They shot their hands up into the air in an age-old display that they were unarmed; no one even glanced at the knife.

"Uh uh . . . don't try it." Her eyes flicked to the injured man crumpled on the floor then back up to the three assailants, but she had seen far too much blood for her liking. Narrowing intense blue eyes, DG growled out, "take him to the bed and give me the room key."

"Do it," the commander ordered, still holding his rifle in one hand but making no move to use it. Apparently he had no interest in challenging the woman as she kept her revolver trained on him.

When the pair of Long Coats reached again for Wyatt, DG rasped out "careful with my husband. I'm feeling a wave of PMS coming on." She watched intently as the commander turned to unlock the bedroom door, never questioning how she could get out of a completely different room from the one assigned to her.

He stepped out of the way of his underlings who carefully heaved Wyatt into the room.

After a long moment, DG watched the pair come back out to the hallway. She nodded her head towards the steps, hands never wavering. No one could question she knew how to use a firearm and was unafraid to do so. "Now leave. Next time someone comes up, I want bandages and General Randu. Anyone else and I start shooting."

The commander stood for a long moment, studying the princess, before finally turning and ordering "get out." His men hurried down the nearby staircase followed closely by their leader. The entire time DG heard their footfalls she refused to move or lower her weapon.

Unfortunately her meek façade had gone up in smoke, and the Long Coats now knew the princess was someone not to be underestimated.

Hearing the door behind her, DG whirled, lowering the gun automatically. Even with an adrenaline rush, she knew only friends would be coming out of Ambrose and Leona's room.

Ambrose looked out, worry on his pale face. "DG?"

She nodded. "Wyatt's hurt." At that, she turned towards the open door of her shared room with Wyatt. The princess wanted to get her Tin Man bandaged before the general showed up. She wanted her hands free to shoot the bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	27. Disturbing Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Leona is worse. Wyatt has been injured by some Long Coats but rescued by DG using his revolver. She has demanded to see Randu.

The long night finally came to an end with the stuttering trill of a bird’s first morning song. Sunlight warmed his face, bringing awareness to the Royal Consort. He stretched luxuriously, like a great desert feline, before turning towards the source of light: the door to the hut stood open, revealing a small, industrious group of Nature Clansmen readying three horses, cooking food, and packing up the campsite. Glancing the other way, Ahamo’s blue eyes fell on the gentle features of his wife, the queen. He stretched once more then sat up, smiling fondly at his spouse of over thirty annuals.

The queen opened her lavender colored eyes and smiled in return. As he offered her a hand to assist in her rising, she winced; her injuries had not healed overnight. She moved slowly, painfully, as Ahamo aided her in sitting up. He reached for the pot of tincture he’d been provided the night before and started massaging the medicine into his wife’s bruises and sore muscles. Silently, she allowed him to tend her injuries.

Just as he finished aiding her dressing, tying her corset for her, Gyles entered the hut without warning. The scarred man merely nodded to the pair and limped to a storage box beside the pallet. He squatted awkwardly, his injured leg stretched outwards as he balanced more on his one bent leg beneath him. Carefully, he pulled items out of the chest and lined them up ready for packing. He finished quickly then turned to the royal couple. “Fynch has food for you both, your majesties. He’s ready to accompany you to the Vinkus River.”

Lavender sent the old retainer a smile and said, “thank you, Gyles.”

He seemed pleased with the simple gratitude of the queen, bringing an answering smile to Ahamo’s face.

The pair moved carefully from the hut, followed by Gyles who retrieved a pack for the supplies still inside. Ahamo held Lavender’s arm gently, looking around the industrious group for the young man they’d met the evening before. When he spotted the man, Ahamo felt a frisson of surprise.

Fynch had changed from his traditional Nature Clan clothing into more conservative Lux Clan trousers and shirt with vest and boots. The hat he sported shaded the scar down the left side of his face. His amber-set armlet was the only thing out of place, as he wore it over the sleeve of his shirt. The young man nodded to the pair and turned to pull some bowls from the banked fire. He stood and brought the food over, offering them silently, a slight frown on his scarified face, light green eyes watchful.

Lavender smiled. “Thank you, Fynch.” She took the bowls carefully as he gestured towards a makeshift bench made of a plank of wood over two solid boxes. Lavender turned her smile up to her husband.

With a grateful nod to the youth, Ahamo guided his wife to the proffered seat, aiding her in getting comfortable on the hard wooden plank. She handed over his breakfast as he sank down beside her. “Thanks, love,” he said and began to eat, still watching the Clansmen working around them.

Surprisingly, Fynch sank into a sitting position, legs folded in a crosswise pattern, next to the couple. His voice sounded strong and sure, though he spoke barely above a whisper, as he said, “when you have broken your fast, we will leave here. At the juncture of the road and river, I will go north to give your message to the resistance.” He looked up at the pair. “Your shadow may follow us or follow Umpa to Kiamo Ko.”

“Shadow . . .” Ahamo nodded. “Then we _are_ being followed.”

“Yes,” Fynch acknowledged then fell silent, letting the couple finish their meal, though all three had taken to watching beyond the industrious clansmen to the horizon. A very long moment passed before Fynch broke the quiet once more. “Do you want a guide to Kvon Altar?” He had accepted the task given him, but his attitude spoke about his concern for the still injured older woman and her magicless escort.

Ahamo shook his head, running a tanned hand through his blond hair. “No. We know the way, Fynch. We need that message to get to Jeb and the resistance more than we need help getting to Kvon Altar.” He paused as the younger man nodded slowly then added, “But we appreciate the offer, Fynch. When we return north, we will be glad of your support in the coming war.” Ahamo knew there was no avoiding a battle with the Long Coat invaders. He hoped they’d have the allies they needed to defeat the well-trained witch’s troops.

Finally, they finished eating and a woman dressed in hunting gear took the bowls without comment. She merely glanced at the Lux Clan members intensely then walked to the fire and started scrubbing the dishes clean in the stream close by. Another woman thrust packs of supplies at the trio then backed off after Ahamo took them and passed one to Fynch and another to Lavender. Ahamo stood, followed by the other two.

Leading their horses, and a third gelding, over, Gyles and another man aided the travellers in mounting and settling their packs. Softly, the old Tin Man said, “May the trees shelter you, the grasses feed you, and the light guide you, your majesties.” He let the bridle of the queen’s mare go and gave the horse a light slap on the rump, causing her to start at a slow gait. The other two horses followed as Gyles lifted his hand in farewell. Fynch never looked back at his uncle or his people.

Ahamo noticed behind them that Gyles turned to a woman who held a plain grey-brown bird of medium build. The man ran his hands over the bird, concentrating on the legs, then stepped back. The woman lifted the bird to the sky and thrust it upwards, causing the bird to flap his wings to catch itself. The bird, once stable, flew southward and disappeared over the vast grasslands. The Royal Consort turned in his saddle facing the path the trio rode, storing the knowledge of the bird event in his memory but not questioning such behavior. The Nature Clan often used birds or dogs as messengers; Gyles would have been calling in help from another area.

Unlike the ride of the night before, this day no one spoke, though the tension remained just as high due to the urgency of their quest. Lavender, while still stiff and sore, seemed to benefit from the medicine for the morning. They rode at a quicker pace and reached the juncture of the Old Road and the Vinkus River within a couple of hours.

Fynch turned in his saddle and pulled out a Lux jacket and slid it on, over the shirt, vest, and unique armband. Finally, except for his shadowed scarred face, the man resembled anyone from the outlying towns near Central City rather than a Nature Clan hunter. He nodded to the royal couple and said “May the trees shelter you, the grasses feed you, and the light guide you. Until we meet again.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and kicked his horse into a gallop, heading for the north and old Shiz Academy.

“Whoa,” Ahamo let out a whoosh of breath. “They’re not too chatty, are they?” He asked his wife.

She laughed and nodded. “I’ve never known them to be, but they are good-hearted and caring. I sometimes think they care so much it can endanger them.”

He sighed in mute agreement and turned his horse south towards the Crack in the O.Z.listening as Lavender turned her mare and kept up to the light canter he set them. Without the grim presence of Fynch, the atmosphere felt lighter. Ahamo called to Lavender “we’ll be at the bridge an hour after luncheon at this pace.”

She nodded and threw a smile at him, apparently concentrating on keeping her seat and controlling her pain. She seemed happy, nonetheless, enjoying her ride through their beautiful kingdom.

The hours ran quickly as the pair rode through grasslands, trees, and farms. They didn’t talk, but they kept shooting smiles and loving glances back and forth. The suns rose high in the sky, but the royal pair opted to hold off on their midday meal until after crossing the Crack. They pressed on until they crested the rise above the bridge, about an hour after zenith. The stopped on the hill.

Below stretched the long bridge over a gorge dropping miles into a deep, fast rushing river. The Crack seemed to split the world in half and fall away into a distant rumbling abyss. What worried Ahamo and Lavender, however, were the four Long Coat guards posted two at either end of the only crossing.

Ahamo frowned. “Whoever attacked the Tower has taken the Crack as well? So, they are also taking the south . . .”

Lavender stiffly dismounted her mare without aid, and Ahamo followed suit. His wife looked at him. “We need to cross,” she commented softly.

He nodded, gripping both sets of reins. “We can brazen our way over, Love.” He studied the armed men, the heavy rifles, the determination in the Long Coat guards.

“Yes, let’s,” she replied and then slowly, almost casually, walked her horse down the hill towards the bridge.

Ahamo followed, keeping a smile on his face.

When they reached the beginning of the bridge, the guards came to sudden attention. One called out “identification . . . please.” The last seemed to have been added out of respect, perhaps the man recognized the royal couple.

Not leaving any doubt, Lavender offered a gentle smile and said “Queen Lavender and the Royal Consort, Henry.”

The name had been used so little since he’d come to the O.Z. that Ahamo barely recognized his birth name, more used to his wife’s nickname for him. The rest of the kingdom would, of course know him by the more formal name the queen had given. Ahamo offered the guards a friendly smile.

A look exchanged between the young men in black leather then the Long Coats looked back at the royal couple. The same one who had offered the challenge said, “and, uh, where are you headed, your majesties?” He seemed to be trying to stay severe but had obviously been raised in Lux territory and had some respect for his rulers despite his current allegiance.

With a soft, friendly laugh, Lavender said “the family wishes to tour the O.Z. and are starting in the south.”

Suddenly, the guards relaxed and the spokesman smiled back. “Ah, that’s why Princess Azkadellia came through an hour ago.”

Nodding, Lavender said, “yes, we got separated. I love the land and wished to take my time.”

The second guard spoke up, sounding puzzled, “Sergeant, is that why she took the commander with her?”

“The Commander?” Ahamo asked lightly, trying to keep his manner friendly, amiable. “Commander Zero?” he guessed.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant affirmed. “He was heading north but the princess turned him around and took him back south. He was injured pretty badly so she had her guard tie him to the horse.” He frowned suddenly. “Um . . . is the commander, uh, being disciplined?”

Lavender lifted a fine grey eyebrow and looked at the sergeant directly. “He hasn’t been seen for sometime, so he will be questioned as to his defection, but it should be no concern to someone doing his duty.”

Ahamo, acting on instinct, asked “has Princess Leona settled well?”

Surprise crossed the men’s faces then they both smiled, looking relieved. “I have not heard, sir,” the sergeant responded, his voice reflecting happiness. “Commander Randu has only ordered that we restrict travel between the north and south to those who are authorized.”

“Well, keep up the good work, Sergeant,” Ahamo praised, mentally noting that these guards thought the royal couple were aiding in Princess Leona’s supposed coup. But the name Randu was new to the equation. “We’ll be on our way and leave you to your work.”

The younger officer frowned and bit his lip. Finally, he turned to the sergeant and made no secret of his doubt. “Should we allow them to go, Sergeant? Didn’t the commander say they could be a threat?”

“Threat?” Lavender asked softly. “Do I seem a threat, Private? I cannot even produce a nightlight, and everyone knows my husband is magicless. How can we be threats?” She offered another smile. “It is time for me to retire, I think, and let someone with power take on the burdens of rulership.”

Standing stiffly, the sergeant glared at the private. “They already know of the commander’s plans for Princess Leona. If they were a threat, they wouldn’t be a party to this.” He turned and bowed formally to the royal pair. “Please, enjoy your tour, your majesty. By the time you’ve finished, I am sure the Princess will be installed well and be ready to accept the mantle you leave behind.”

Lavender nodded in returned. “I am sure the princess which follows me will make a good queen for all the O.Z.”

With that, the guards moved out of their way and let the pair make their leisurely way across the bridge. The Long Coats radioed the guards at the other end to grant the couple free access to the southern road. Ahamo and Lavender silently crossed and nodded acknowledgement to that pair before mounting on the far side of the bridge. The horses, at a slow walk, started once more on the path.

When far enough from the guards to avoid being overheard, Ahamo looked at his wife, frowning in worry. “Az has Zero?”

His wife nodded, seeming equally worried. “We now know who is trying to put Leona on the throne. What part does Zero have in the scheme? And . . .” she looked over at Ahamo, “is Az in danger?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I can only hope Dylan continues to protect her. That he can stop anything Zero might try.”

The rulers of the O.Z. simultaneously kicked their horses into a fast gallop, despite Lavender’s injuries. They needed to get to Kvon Altar and treaty with the Phlogiston Clan as soon as may be. Az and Dylan would have to be trusted to be able to deal with the former commander and possibly one of their deadliest adversaries.

xxx

Once they had made it down the corridor, Jeb turned to look at Mariah. “If we’re going to the guild fighters, we’ll need to either go through the north, the east, or the south east. The east might be a better choice, even with Central City on the way. It’ll takes us the the Eastern Guild Fighters quickly, and I used to live that way and know the road well.”

Mariah centered her liquid amber eyes on the resistance leader and nodded once.

He continued. “We’ll need disguises to get through the city.”

She smiled and gestured from him to her and back to him, her eyes seeming to dance in apparent amusement.

Jeb flushed, somehow understanding the idea. “Uh . . . okay, I guess it _did_ work.” He couldn’t help but recall the night before when, despite his drugged state, they’d slipped through Central City security by pretending to be newlyweds. “But I don’t think wearing my uniform’s a good idea this trip.”

With a soft pat on his arm, Mariah gestured towards a man dressed in traditional Lux shirt and vest, sporting the kilt of the eastern resistance fighters. Jeb nodded to her, and they both moved over to the man obviously guarding a thick metal door. Jeb knew all of the resistance fighters having been one of the leaders, and this man was no stranger.

“Lincoln?”

“Captain?” The man with the muddy-brown hair and dark green eyes stood at attention, despite Jeb’s typical lax attitude towards salutes and other military niceties. At Jeb’s nod, the man grinned widely and relaxed. “Glad to see _you_ , Sir. Now we’ll get somewhere. I know we’re supposed to meet here, but most of us don’t even know what’s happening, Sir.”

Jeb held up a hand. “The royal family are under attack again, but not from the witch,” he hurried to explain. “Right now, we need to gather as many allies as we can. I’m going to see if any of the guild fighters will join us, but I need some other clothes.” He gestured towards his damaged uniform. “This is too obvious.”

Lincoln studied Jeb for a long moment, but respectfully did not check over Mariah. After awhile, the man nodded and gestured down the hall. “Three more doors, Sir, willt ake you to clothing stores. This here’s arms. Need a weapon?”

“No,” Jeb shook his head, smiling grimly, once more falling into his former role of leader of a ragtag group of freedom fighters. “Save those for the men fighting. I’m only on a recruiting run. I’ll just take my sword.” He lifted a foot to walk away but stopped and turned back to the now frowning Lincoln. “The royal family should be showing up in the next few days. Dylan may be among them. In my place, Dylan’s in charge, but if he doesn’t show, spread the word that someone of the royal house will take over until I return.”

The man nodded, apparently untroubled by the command. Jeb had often gone on lone or small scouting missions, leaving different people in charge each time to give his men and women experience leading.

“Good man,” Jeb clapped his shoulder and turned to lead Mariah down the hall to the clothing stores, a room not under guard.

Inside, Jeb started looking through for comfortable pants, shirt, and vest. He decided to sport thick tipless gloves, such as the ones Mariah had used to help him the day before, and a hat much like his father’s to shade his face and emotions from observation. Having gathered most of what he looked for, Jeb turned and froze, blue-grey eyes widening in shock.

His companion had stripped down right there and stood only in plain underpants and chest strap, her ring flashing like a blue star in the lamp of the storage room while the hateful collar gleamed like dull silver. Jeb swallowed, unable to take his eyes off her pale, graceful body a she stepped into an ankle-length skirt.

Flushing, knowing she was putting the outfit on wrong, Jeb cleared his throat, drawing Mariah’s attention. “Over your head . . .” he blushed as he strode over to help. “The skirt goes over your head, then the tunic, then the corset.” He only knew how women’s clothing worked because his mother had sometimes cared for a neighbor’s little girl when he’d been small. “Let me help,” he offered.

She smiled and stepped back out of the skirt then nodded and offered him the sturdy piece of fabric; at least she’d chosen well for a hard journey. As Jeb took the skirt, Mariah picked up a matching tunic and also offered it to him. Again, he took the clothing item, but had to chuckle as she next offered him a vest and matching corset.

“Whoa, one at a time, girl!” He laughed softly and saw the answering sparkle in her laughter-crinkled eyes. “Ah, teasing me, are you?” Jeb put the clothing down on a nearby shelf and gestured her to come closer. He quickly slipped the skirt then tunic over her head, having her hold them in place. Carefully, he wrapped the corset around her waist and began to carefully tie the stays, recalling his mother’s long ago instructions to the neighboring girl to _”tie them to hold not harm. Breathing is important.”_ Jeb unconsciously repeated his mother’s long ago instructions out loud.

Mariah nodded at his advice, and turned as he finished, offering him her quick smile. She picked up the vest and slid into it then sank to the floor and began pulling on some stockings the same color as the vest and corset she’d chosen.

Jeb turned and finished gathering his own clothes then looked around for a place to change. Flushing once more, he realized that shyness would waste time. If Mariah could trust him enough to dress in front of him, and even let him help her dress, he could show the same trust. Thus, the young man quickly stripped from the damaged royal uniform and reached for the trousers.

His hand met Mariah’s, sending a warmth through his fingers and up his arm. Lifting startled eyes, he met Mariah’s serious ones. She no longer smiled playfully at him. Rather, the woman handed over the trousers and picked up the shirt, ready to offer him the same assistance he’d provided her. Shaking off his discomfort, Jeb slipped on the trousers and shirt, beginning to button it.

“Once we get to Central City, we’ll look for my friend. His names Norison.” He turned and watched her as she picked up his chosen vest and moved around behind him. He let her slide the vest over his arms and settle it on his shoulders then went back to fastening his buttons. “Once we’ve talked to Norison, we’ll go out the south gate of the city and head west on the Old Brick Route.” Pushing the last button into place, Jeb lifted his eyes to meet hers and stopped speaking.

Mariah stood quite close, not a foot away, and she watched him intently, as if every syllable held the most import. As Jeb fell silent, Mariah reached down and slid her ring from her finger. She reached out and grabbed his hand, lifting it and slipping the silver band with the sapphire stone over Jeb’s almost feminine-slim finger. She smiled briefly as she twisted the ring to hide the sapphire in his palm. Then, meeting his eyes once more, Mariah leaned in and softly brushed her lips over his.

She stepped back and turned to put on a pair of protective, tipless gloves.

“Mariah?” Jeb questioned, his voice barely a whisper.

The Spiritus woman looked at him, her expression as serious as normal, no sign of the emotions or thoughts she kept inside. Rather, Mariah tossed him a pair of gloves then slid into a pair of sturdy boots. She walked from the room, signalling her readiness to begin their next journey.

Jeb hurried to finish dressing, strapped on his sword, and followed her out, watching as she pulled her long braid up into a ponytail at the top of her head, letting the ends of a ribbon trail down to her shoulders.

Soon, provisioned for a three day journey, the pair once more mounted the seat of the simple farm wagon from the day before. Jeb took the reins and flicked them, starting the horse in a steady walk: slow, but fitting for their disguise. It took long minutes for the cart to finally crest a small rise and leave the borders of the old Shiz Academy behind.

The young resistance fighter knew he should address what had happened between them in the store room, and even the night before, but he felt reluctant to bring it up. He wondered if he was making too much of the kisses. Last night, she’d kissed him to first get them past security then to transfer much needed medicine to him. But this morning’s kiss . . . he wasn’t sure what Mariah had meant by that . . . and why she had given him her ring.

Thus the trip to Central City stretched in silence. Neither made an attempt to communicate with the other. When, several hours later, they arrived at the Western Gate of Central City, the loud challenge of the guards came as a jarring shock.

As the Long Coat held his gun in a loose grip, Jeb reminded himself that they were supposed to be newly married and travelling to the city for their honeymoon. He wondered just how a newly married man should act. Clearing his throat, for the first time uncomfortable with one of the disguises he adopted, Jeb said, “we’re coming to the city for a hotel . . . uh . . .” he flushed.

The guard gave Jeb a strange look and glanced over Mariah, who slipped a hand over her mouth as if shy. She rolled her liquid amber eyes to meet Jeb’s blue-grey then lowered her hand, revealing a dazzling smile. The Long Coat seemed mesmerized by the redhead’s sudden joy. The guard blinked and cleared his own throat.

“Newly married then?” he guessed and Mariah nodded, leaned her head on Jeb’s shoulder.

Slipping an arm around Mariah’s waist, Jeb nodded. “Yes, sir. We’re here for our honeymoon,” he said, his voice cracking with nerves. _‘Damn, get yourself together!’_ Jeb cursed himself, what was it about this woman that turned his known world upside down? He’s been around women for his entire life, led them into battle, nursed them on their deathbeds, and even once watched as a young woman gave birth to a stillborn deep in the forest when they couldn’t get her to medical help due to Long Coat raids. How could this mute, magic-blocked woman he’d only met the day before make his heart pound and his brain whirl?

Blinking, Jeb pushed his random thoughts away and realized the guard had given them permission to pass through the gate. The resistance leader nodded and gave a smile to Mariah, knowing he’d have to keep his control; it’d be dangerous to let his guard down. They were at war, after all.

Within minutes, the cart pulled up in front of a nondescript club, dark and quiet in the full glare of the morning. Jeb sat for a long moment, silently contemplating the brick and wood building with the unlit gas-powered lights. Finally, a soft touch on his arm drew his attention. Looking up, he exchanged frowns with Mariah. Finally, he nodded and jumped from the cart, turning to grasp her waist and help her down.

Her skirts swished around her legs in a soft whisper of movement, but Jeb could only wonder if she preferred these long skirts or the trousers he’d first seen her in. He shook his head and ignored the confusion that came to her whiskey-colored eyes. Fortunately, he didn’t have to explain to her as she merely turned towards the building, seemingly content to let him keep his thoughts to himself. He turned to follow her.

Standing, watching them intently, Norison leaned against the plain wall. The night before he’d been dressed for an evening with rich friends. This day, the older resistance fighter had shed the evening clothes for workman’s garb, more suitable for construction work than attending parties. Once the two visitors had noticed him, Norison pushed from the wall and strode to them, not smiling.

Stopping before Norison, Jeb softly said, “the old academy.” With that, he slid an arm around Mariah’s waist and guided her around the other man, as if avoiding a stranger. He guided her down the walkway to a small shop two buildings down. Inside, Jeb looked at the woman pressed against him.

“See anything you want?” he asked softly, thankful for her serious expression. Her rare smile threw his entire being into chaos and made it hard to concentrate on their mission. He had become used to her more somber, intense manner and felt comfortable around that version of Mariah.

With a bare nod, Mariah answered Jeb’s question. She moved to a display of simple lace and gestured to a spool of the delicately woven cream colored patterns. Turning her body, rather than her collar-encased neck, Mariah gestured again to the lace.

Nodding, Jeb fetched the clerk and pointed out Mariah’s selection. “A yard of that lace, please,” he said then watched as the woman cut the appropriate length and wrapped it in paper. Jeb fished a pair of coins from his pocket and passed them to the women, took the packet, and handed it to Mariah, who merely took it with a neutral expression.

Jeb slid his arm around her waist once more and guided her from the store, much like she was handicapped or invalid. He noticed Norison had disappeared, but didn’t try to spot the older man, hoping he’d taken the message to heart. Rather, Jeb handed Mariah back into the cart, hopped up to the seat, and took the reins. He settled then started the horse into a steady walk through the late morning traffic, heading for the eastern gate and the real start of their desperate quest.

Mariah seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, watching the walking crowd and the driving vehicles as they passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	28. A Game of Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: Ahamo and Lavender separate from Fynch and travel across the Crack in the O.Z., discovering worrisome information concerning Az's rescue of Zero the afternoon before. Jeb and Mariah meet again with Norison in Central City.

Never taking her eyes from the injured bodyguard on the bed, DG lay the revolver on the small dressing table. Shaking her hand, as if to relax the tight muscles, DG turned to Ambrose and softly instructed, "Lock us in. He's going to have to knock this time." Apparently ignoring her damp limbs and underpants, seemingly momentarily unaware of her general nakedness, DG reached over and started unbuttoning Wyatt's none-too-fresh uniform. As an afterthought, she said "And, Glitch? Leona's going to need help."

"Those guards are going to be extra careful now that they know what a good shot you are," Ambrose murmured, one hand flitting up to touch his bandages.

Without looking away from Wyatt, DG snorted. "That was the first time I've handled a revolver. I'm not particularly good with Pop's rifle, either."

Ambrose paled further, dark eyes widening in shock. "You were bluffing?"

She glanced over her bare shoulder, giving Ambrose an impatient glare. "Glitch! Leona . . ."

"Right," he replied, ignoring the name she'd used for him. Fortunately the royal advisor could function even with the pounding headache from his surgical wound. He quickly locked the door to the hall and slid the key next to the revolver on the desk. Striding quickly through the bathing room, Ambrose momentarily checked that Leona remained in stable condition on the wet floor then continued into the attached room he'd inhabited since the siege. Gathering linen shirts, four water tumblers, and Wyatt's razor, along with the remains of Jeb's medical kit, Ambrose returned to DG's side. He placed the objects within easy reach of the princess' desperately questing hands ending by sliding the single wooden chair to Wyatt's bedside. Ambrose filled all four tumblers with cold water from the bathing room sink and set them carefully on the chair. Then he hesitated.

He knew none of them were safe there, but the general needed DG for his sick breeding plan. Unfortunately, that made her the safest of them all for the moment. The royal advisor knew he had to look out for Leona and himself now; DG had blown their cover in her mad dash to save Wyatt. Without a word, Ambrose opened the armoire, dug out Wyatt's duster, and headed for the connecting rooms. Carefully he helped the weakened, feverish Leona to her feet. He gasped; his strength was quickly leaving him. Clenching his teeth, the man forced Leona to move quickly, half-pulling her as she stumbled into their room. He took the time to lock the connecting door, wrap the remaining linens in the duster, grab the fedora to pull over his bandaged head, then once more half-supported-half-bullied Leona from the room into the long corridor.

"Shh," he warned Leona, needlessly as the woman merely dropped heavily against him. Listening warily, Ambrose closed the room door and locked it then bent and shoved the key through the small gap under the wooden barrier. Finally, he tugged Leona towards the furthest suite on the opposite side.

The door opened easily under his hand and Ambrose tugged his companion collapse onto the floorboards. Feeling above the doorframe with one trembling hand, Ambrose's other hand clutched spastically at his head. His wounds pounded like guild fighter drums and nausea choked at his throat. Ruthlessly, the advisor pushed back his weakness, reminding himself that if Cain could run with fang wounds and Raw could fight through electrical prods, he could very well make sure Leona was safe before indulging his own weakness. Long clever fingers stumbled over hard metal just as a confusing thought washed over him. _'Who the hell are Cain and Raw?'_

His head throbbed harder and Ambrose swallowed the rising sick, hand flying from the hat covering his bandages to cover his mouth. He pulled the thick metal key from it's all too typical hiding place and fumbled the lock closed. Turning, the desperately ill man stumbled through the bathing room and into the connected lady's room, finding the key to lock that hall door, too.

At last, he made his way to the commode and knelt down, his hat falling to the floor, and he gripped the porcelain in weakened fingers as he vomited the little bit of food he'd eaten before their breakfast had been destroyed. Ambrose let his mind go temporarily blank, not wanting to think as his stomach emptied and his body switched to dry heaves.

A soft, trembling hand on his back brought Ambrose to reluctant awareness, and he wondered when he'd passed out . . . and for how long. Troubled, he turned his head, cheek against the commode seat, mouth sour and throat raw. Swallowing a minor urge to heave once more, he focused his eyes on the pale, nude form of a soapy, wet Leona nearby. He knew she must've crawled after him.

"I've got to check your stitches, Ambrose," she whispered, though he wasn't certain if she kept her voice low due to her own weakness or a fear of being caught. "You probably hurt yourself, you silly brave fool."

_'Silly brave fool?'_ Ambrose shot her an annoyed look. He certainly wasn't foolish or silly, and he'd never been particularly brave. A flash of fighting a group of Long Coats crossed his ravaged memory, but he pushed the wayward thought aside as implausible. He'd never been a fighter and dancing a group to submission really would be preposterous if it were possible. Of course, he'd had training on how to use his body as a weapon, but he'd never had a reason to use such training . . . at least not that he could recall.

Leona reached for the bandages wrapped around his shaved head and the royal advisor allowed it. He did lift his head to give her easier access, though he trembled with the effort. As she unwound the bandages, he studied her with serious brown eyes. Despite her own wounds, her fever, and her recent terrors, the princess appeared calm and determined.

She quickly peeked under his bandages then rewound them securely, softly saying, "you'll do for now, Ambrose. no tears or even over-swelling. Looks like magic healing took hold." Leona sat back on the tiles, lifting a hand to brush her long mass of water-logged hair from her eyes. "Of course, doing brain surgery is ludicrous without healing magic, so it makes sense that you'd have magic healing."

"I'm worried about DG and her husband," Ambrose changed the subject; his predicament came secondary to the woman and injured man down the hall. "She's caused a lot of trouble fighting the Long Coats, I'm certain . . . and popping out the wrong door like some guild fighter in a Secretia flower . . ."

Soft laughter from Leona stopped him mid-tirade. "What? He asked, wondering if he'd missed some joke.

"DG's too tall to be a guild fighter." Leona smiled at Ambrose. "She'd have to be the size of a small child to hide in a Secretia flower."

As usual Leona seemed to have missed the main thrust of the conversation. "I was making a comparison not claiming she'd . . ." He frowned, scooping up the fedora and putting it back over his bandages. "What I meant, Ona, was that they're bound to realize she came out the wrong door. The moment they figure out this floor has suites . . . What?" he demanded as she laughed again.

"What?" she echoed, "they'll move them to another floor? Take both keys?" She shook her head and laid a hand on his soaked and sticky pajama-covered chest. "Randu would be stupid to do anything but make a public show of disciplining those guards, even if he ordered that attack."

Ambrose opened his mouth to protest only to feel Leona's steady fingers cover his lips. "Think about it, Ambrose. If they had a means of escape, they never used it. Even when those men beat on Wyatt, she insisted on going back to the room instead of trying to leave. If you were Randu, what would you think?"

The advisor thought, pushing past the throbbing in his head. Finally, he suggested "either they're idiots, truly devoted to Randu's cause, or hiding something . . ." His eyes opened wider as understanding dawned on him. "If I were Randu, I'd think they'd be hiding someone important . . . possibly the surgical patient . . . me . . ."

With a smile, Leona nodded, as if pleased with his cleverness.

Ambrose frowned, "That's not good, Ona! He knows I'm here."

"No," she corrected, still smiling. "He thinks she may have found me." She emphasized her words by tapping her chest, drawing inadvertent attention to her nude breasts.

Heat rose in Ambrose's face and other parts of his body. Frowning severely, he pushed to shaky feet and grabbed a washcloth and towel. "Let's finish cleaning you up, Leona." He deliberately slipped back into her formal name, hoping she hadn't caught his usage of the diminutive earlier. "Then you need re-bandaging and dressing."

"So do you," Leona said, still smiling. "You need bathing and dressing." As Ambrose flushed, Leona laughed softly. "I'll wash you if you wash me, Dillian."

Straightening in surprise, Ambrose growled out, "Leona, do _not_ call me that!"

She replied, "oh, but you can call me _'Ona'_?" and Ambrose wasn't sure if she was challenging him or inviting him.

Confused and exhausted, Ambrose turned on the water in the hipbath and began to carefully bath the still laughing princess, trying to think how he could get the most annoying woman of his acquaintance to safety before he succumbed to the temptation of letting her and her confusing ways get recaptured by the enemy.

xxx

When the door finally closed and she heard the sound of the secondary door locking, DG sighed, though she didn't relax. Rather, the princess continued to unbutton Wyatt's jacket. Glancing down at the man's bloody, torn trousers, she clenched her teeth and stepped back. She needed to cut the uniform off; any other method of removal would cause too much pain and blood loss. She desperately needed bandages and medicine for him, too.

Wyatt tried to say something, but DG shook her head. "No, don't talk. I've got this." She reached into his inner jacket pocket to pull out his straight razor. "Just stay still," she said, "I don't want to cut you." At a groan from the injured Tin Man, DG took a breath, plucked the blood-soaked cloth away from his skin, and carefully slit the material.

Not giving herself a chance to study the injury, DG hurriedly finished cutting away the trousers, jacket, and tunic, leaving the remains under him on the bed. Finally, the former farm girl studied the slashed thigh and hip, torn shoulder and neck, battered face, and general overall bruising; he most likely had cracked ribs, too.

Turning a sob into a growl, she sprinted into the washroom, soaked the one remaining towel, and came back out. She washed blood away from the gash, trying to judge the severity of his wound. He needed stitches she determined.

A sudden knock on the door brought DG whirling around, grabbing for the revolver. She got up, unlocked the door, and flung it open. Glaring, she threw her head back to look up at the General's face. Without pausing to consider her situation, DG growled out "your flunkies nearly killed my husband."

With an answering frown, Randu stepped into the room, a large bag slung over one shoulder, a covered tray in his hands. He slid the tray onto the writing desk and walked over to study Wyatt's wounds. With a nod, he placed the sack on the nightstand and turned. "I will have them severely punished, Princess." With that, he clicked his heels together, bowed to DG, and strode from the room, never once glancing around. He closed the door and his footsteps could be heard down the hall then the steps, fading quickly.

DG sprang forward, not bothering to lock the door. It would be obvious she couldn't run anywhere; Wyatt was too badly hurt. Quickly, she delved into the pack, thankful that Randu had taken her message to heart. The bag overflowed with bandages, suturing supplies, various medicines, and other emergency medical equipment. With a shake of her head, pulling out what she needed to treat Wyatt, DG reminded herself that Randu was not an ally. His use of her rank hadn't gone unnoticed . . . it was quite possible that without Leona, Randu had his men incapacitate Wyatt so the general could gain free access to the unprotected DG.

Pushing aside that unwelcome idea, DG began to pull out the supplies she’d need. Fortunately, she'd had enough practice tending wounds on the farm, even if it was on animals rather than humans. DG's hands moved quickly to clean and bandage Wyatt's leg and hip, shoulder, and neck. After cleaning off more blood, she knew that thigh and hip would definitely need sewing up. Expression turning from frown of concentration to one of distress, DG sorted through the medications until she found the ones Ambrose had earlier identified for her. She knew then that Randu must have planned this; the bag was too well stocked, had arrived to quickly, to be anything but pre-arranged. She was going to kill that asshole.

Slipping an arm behind Wyatt, she helped him sit, watching as he tried to suppress his moan of pain. His skin paled further and his eyes rolled back in his head; he nearly passed out. “Oh, no you don’t, Wyatt! I need you . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence, but he appeared to respond, struggling to open his eyes and obey her. “Here, drink this,” she quickly poured the contents of a small twist of paper into the tumbler of water and offered the grey-dusted water to him.

Wyatt raised a hand to take the glass, but he shook from pain and weakness. Seeming to settle on merely helping hold the glass, he allowed DG to bring it to his lips and swallowed the bitter fluid completely down. Not one to give into his pain, Wyatt rarely ever took medicine, but he seemed to allow DG to ply him with two types of pills in addition to the grey powder. Finally, she took the glass and set it on the night stand.

Carefully, DG lowered Wyatt back to the bed. She took a deep breath and began threading the suture needle. The medicine wouldn’t have time to kick in yet, but she didn’t want to wait for the Tin Man to lose even more blood, or for Randu to determine he should return. Rather, the princess gritted her teeth and began to stitch Wyatt’s thigh flesh.

He screamed and passed out.

DG offered up a small prayer of thanks while simultaneously apologizing to her bodyguard. She sewed rapidly then moved onto his flank while he remained unconscious. Afterwards, shaking and covered in his blood, DG sat back on the dirtied bed, looking over her ragged stitching. She’d never been a seamstress, but the wounds were clean and closed; she figured Wyatt would just put up with the scars that would result.

Finally, DG rose shakily to her feet, amazed at how tired she was from the intense concentration she’d expended. SHe didn’t rest yet, though. Rather, she finished washing the blood from Wyatt’s nude body, dropping the used cloths in a heap. She then stripped the bed and slipped the messy bedding and destroyed uniform from under his heavy body, trying to roll him slightly to gain leverage, but not skilled in this practice either. Her parents back on the farm had never been sick, and whenever she had been, she was too far gone to really notice the specifics of how her cyborg mother had been taking care of these details.

Gathering up the dirty pile, DG trembled as she walked to the hall and dumped the entire mess on the floor to let the guards or Randu tend to. She leaned against the wall to merely rest a moment but a glint of metal under the heap drew her eyes. Curious, a trait DG had never been able to fight, the young woman knelt down and unburied the bloodied knife one of the Long Coats had dropped in the scuffle against Wyatt.

She grimly picked up the dirtied blade , noticing a small piece of the tip had broken off. With another frown, she looked around, but didn’t really have the strength to check the heap of laundry just to find the useless tip, so decided to ignore it. DG pushed from the wall with one hand and the floor with her knife hand, standing shakily. Walking across the hall, she tried to open the door and found it locked. Something registered in her tired brain: a locked door on an unoccupied floor meant someone else was there.

Softly she called, “Glitch?”

The door unlocked after a long moment and Leona swung it open slightly. She smiled. “Hello, dear, come to call?”

DG blinked in confusion. Then she shook her head. “Yes, I’ve stitched up Wyatt and I’ve found you a knife.” She offered the bloody blade.

Leona smiled, seeming wobbly. “Thank you, that’ll help I’m certain. Did you want to get dressed and come back?” The older princess glanced beyond DG to the mess of cloth on the floor and frowned. “Or did you want to raid one of the rooms for clean linens?” At DG’s insistence, Leona took the knife.

“Right,” DG sighed, gathering herself. “Clean linen and clothes.” Her memory sparked and she straightened slightly, “oh, and Asshole brought up food.”

“Language,” murmured Leona, but DG ignored her cousin; the general didn’t deserve her respect.

Pulling up reserves of strength, having had a moment to at least catch her breath and rest as she spoke to Leona, DG nodded. “I’m going to raid Jeb’s room. I’ll be right back with food and medicine.” She grinned. “General Randu was kind enough to get me supplies.” the sarcasm in DG’s voice belied the sweet words.

With a nod, Leona carefully shut the door and the key sounded in the lock.

DG sighed and turned to raid the nearby room Jeb had been given not too long ago. How long had it been, she wondered to herself, _‘three days? Two days?’_ DG had lost track of time and was too tired to puzzle it out. Instead, she set to work stripping the bed and bathroom of all usable cloth items then went back to her assigned prison room with the loot.

Inside, having seemingly caught her second wind, DG quickly made the bed. This time, she rolled the sheets for half the bed and left that next to Wyatt’s sleeping form. Then, she hefted Wyatt into a roll onto his good side, over the small lump of rolled cloth. It worked and DG felt a minor spark of elation as she pulled the sheets from under him and began to make the other half of the bed, storing away that little trick for future use.

Checking on Wyatt’s injuries once more, DG felt satisfied. He was still cool to the touch and no blood showed through the bandages. She felt that she may have just done this nursing thing right.

With a stretch to work out an ache developing in her muscles, DG reached for a robe from the wardrobe and headed into the bathroom to strip and wash the blood from her body. She dried on one of Jeb’s borrowed towels then put on the robe and headed back to the armoire for some underpants and a chest band. Once barely decent, DG slid the pack over her shoulder and hefted the tray, surprised by how heavy it felt.

She walked across the hall, still not locking her own room, and used her head to tap on the door, calling “Glitch.” She figured she might as well make it a code word.

The door unlocked and opened and Leona backed out of the way, wiping sweat from her brow. She moved to the bed on shaky legs, her flushed skin giving evidence that the princess was certainly not well. DG walked in and kicked the door shut, not bothering with the lock since her hands were full. She slid the tray onto the nightstand and dropped to Ambrose’s side of the bed.

Reaching over a hand, she checked his surgery wound and nodded. “Looking good, Ambrose,” she said. Turning, DG lifted the lid from the tray and sucked in a shocked breath. There sat lunch for three people: soup bowls, juice cups, bread and fruit. She narrowed her eyes. “He’s testing us.”

Ambrose laughed softly. “Well, I’m not particularly hungry right now. I’ll have my normal half a share, please.”

DG nodded and smiled at her friend. “We’ll all only eat our normal shares. The third can go untouched and Randu’ll have to wonder.”

All three began eating lunch, carefully ignoring the third serving of everything despite hunger from small rations. After a while DG noticed how Ambrose trembled in growing weakness. Softly, she asked, “didn’t the magic work from the surgery?”

Ambrose stared at her blankly, and DG sighed. “You’re glitching again,” she said. He sighed and nodded, but merely chewed his bread and looked confused. DG worried that the surgery hadn’t worked right; every time Ambrose glitched, he seemed to get worse not better. “How do you feel, Ambrose?”

“Fine,” he said, looking at her with a winsome smile.

Leona chuckled softly. “He’s doing well, and once I’m over my fever I’ll give him a jolt of light to help him out.”

“Jolt of light?” DG questioned, attention immediately on her cousin.

“Yes,” Leona replied, dipping her bread in the last of her soup and offering it to Ambrose. “You can heal using light magic, DG.” She let Ambrose take the bread, he didn’t protest, and turned her attention to drinking her water, ignoring the juice once more after that morning’s debacle. “Of course, true healing needs to come from the Aquam Clan. They can heal any wound, any illness. But Lux Clan can do their small share. Ambrose would have been perfectly fine within hours if he’d been attended by an Aquam during surgery.”

“Instead,” DG filled in, “my sister helped him. Oh!” Her eyes opened wide at recalling something from her quest. “Viewers can heal, too. Raw healed Wyatt’s leg after a Papay bit him.”

“Well, lucky he didn’t have fang pox,” Ambrose said, unaware how he echoed his earlier comment from almost a month before.

Nodding, pushing the tray slightly to indicate that she was finished, Leona added “Yes, but they use herbs with their medicine. And the Nature Clan can heal, too, but use their magic to heal plants rather than people. Mortem Clan heals, too, to some extent, but only in a small way.” She beamed tiredly at Ambrose, who turned his head away, flushing as if embarrassed.

DG gave a small smile; her advisor and her cousin made a rather cute couple, if they ever realized it.

When Ambrose put down his cup of water, too, DG turned to quickly check on Leona’s bandages. She left them some of the clean linens as well as an amount of medicine then grabbed the tray and stood with a sigh. On the tray were an empty bowl, a full bowl, a half full bowl, and all three glasses full of apple juice. One and a half small loaves of bread sat there, too, but all three apples had gone missing. DG didn’t begrudge Ambrose the fruit; Radu could hardly take it as a sign of a third person just because the extra fruit was being hoarded or eaten.

She looked over the pair as they seemed to settle further into the large bed, both pale and apparently very tired. Leona’s fever medicine had apparently kicked in, though, because her cheeks were less flushed. DG nodded. “Gotta go. I’ll be back later. Lock the door behind me, okay?

She turned and walked out of the room, listening as one of her friends got up to seal the door, key clicking in the lock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_


	29. Changing Relations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: To keep hiding, Ambrose and Leona move to a different suite. DG finds out she can partially heal Wyatt using her magic.

A warm, lethargy rolled through Wyatt. He opened his eyes leisurely as the door clicked open. Watching DG in a robe and an expanse of bare skin walk in, the Tin Man knew he should feel worried, but somehow he couldn't fully muster the emotion. Rather, he watched the young woman as she kicked the door shut and walked over with the tray. Wyatt struggled to sit up and a sharp pain stabbed through his side and leg followed by a wave of nausea. Wyatt suppressed a groan as he lay back into the pillow.

"Hey, wait until I help you. I've got lunch," she called out, sliding the tray onto the nightstand and dropping an unfamiliar backpack onto the floor by the bed. But rather than coming over to him, she turned and made her way back to the door, locking it. DG came to the bed and helped Wyatt, who felt weak and more than achy, to sit up against the pillows.

"You have the key," Wyatt noted, mildly surprised. He couldn't bring himself to feel much concerned, a dull sluggishness lacing through his blood.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean we'll be left alone for long. The General's bound to come back before tonight, tomorrow at the latest." The dark-haired woman picked up a bowl from the tray and half a roll, turning to sink down carefully beside the injured Tin Man on the bed. "For some reason he sent up too much food," DG reported softly.

Something about her words sparked a flicker of worry and Wyatt narrowed his crystal blue eyes. "Has your appetite increased?" He wanted to warn her that Randu was testing them, but the woman seemed to have already figured that out.

"No. I ate what I wanted to while you were sleeping." DG slid the half empty bowl into her companion's hands, and he ignored the offer of a spoon, lifting the lukewarm soup to his mouth and drinking it down quickly. When done, he accepted the roll and an apple juice.

DG put aside the empty bowl and picked up another apple juice, sipping it, perhaps to be doing something. Softly, she said, "in my lessons, I've found that I might be able to ease some of your pain with my light."

Wyatt hesitated then nodded. He'd seen how strong DG's magic ran and didn't doubt she could spare a bit of that light energy. He needed to keep her safe, as well as protect Leona and Ambrose. In order to do that, he needed to be healthy. Crystal blue eyes met vivid blue ones and some mutual agreement seemed to pass between them.

Standing, DG slipped Wyatt's empty tumbler from his hand and put it beside hers on the tray, ignoring the third glass as much as she ignored the third bowl and roll. Wyatt watched, frowning softly, as DG carried the tray to the door, unlocked the barrier, put the rest of lunch outside in the hall next to what seemed to be a heap of linen, then closed and locked the door once more.

To give DG access to his wounds, Wyatt pulled back the stifling blankets and sheets, glad for the sudden rush of cooler air across his nude form. _Nude?_ He blinked down at the bandages along his flank and thigh, along with his lack of clothing, even drawers. Flushing a bit, the bodyguard reached for the sheets once more, but a soft hand over his stopped him.

"I need to check your stitches, Wyatt," DG reminded him.

"Uh," Wyatt cleared his throat. "I can wear some drawers at least." He continued to blush and reached for a corner of blanket.

"No, you can't," DG countered then sighed and shook her head. "Look, Wyatt, I appreciate you trying to protect my modesty and all, really."

Her words sent a spark of disbelief through the older man. Protect her modesty? Hell, he was trying to protect her reputation, too! She seemed oblivious to the wider implications of being found with him in such a state, despite his injuries.

She continued, "but I can't always be trying to shimmy your pants over those bandages when you need the bathroom, so, it's easier to take care of you this way. Trust me, even underpants would be a hassle right now. And," she looked up at Wyatt's face and offered a small, playful seeming smile as she lay her hand on his thigh, just below the bandage line, a jolt of heat and desire shooting through the man, "we're supposed to be married. Those guys would get really suspicious if we were interrupted all the time fully clothed. This is our honeymoon . . ." her voice trailed off almost suggestively.

"Deeg," Wyatt warned, voice low. Damn, the woman played with fire . . .

On a low, throaty chuckle, the princess laid her hand over his thigh. She didn't actually unbandage his wound. Rather, her hand over his linens began to glow and an intense warmth tingled through his leg heading straight for his manhood, which pulsed in response.

Aching with sudden need, Wyatt gasped and let his eyes close, trying to hide his obvious desire with the only cover readily available: his hands. "Deeg, now . . . isn't a good . . . time," he breathed, trying to warn her off, but he couldn't set her from him because his hands were occupied trying to protect her modesty . . . and his. He suspected it was a useless endeavor.

"Give me a moment, Wyatt," she practically purred. "I'll take care of _all_ of you . . ." She slowly caressed her fingers lightly over his hip and to his bandaged flank, her glow intense and sending wave after wave of pure desire through the man.

Feeling a sudden rush of heat go straight to his crotch at her suggestive tone, Wyatt groaned. He could feel his swelling erection and the sight of the princess in practically nothing only fed the forbidden desire. On a soft moan, the blond bodyguard said, "Deeg . . . I need . . . uh . . . time. Alone . . ."

"Want help?" DG asked, her tone playful with a hint of wicked promise. She pushed his hands out of the way, her vivid blue eyes locked on his crystals ones. "God, Wyatt," she moaned softly and leaned in to seal her mouth over his, her work-roughened hand settling over his full erection, dragging an answering pulse through Wyatt's flushed, needy body.

Head swirling with the long-denied sensations, mixed with the heady scent unique to DG, Wyatt let out a soft groan and began kissing her back, eyes closing as he tilted his head for better access. He brought his strong, large hands up to cup her shoulders, finding the soft material of her robe. With a small grunt of annoyance, the Tin Man pushed the robe from the Princess's shoulders, feeling her smooth skin bare itself for him. He groaned into her mouth.

DG broke their kiss first, pulling back and drawing in a shaky breath. She began to kiss Wyatt's neck, licking at his pulse point.

Wyatt groaned and bucked slightly upwards into DG's hand still covering him. The sensation as her warm fingers began to encircle him broke through hazy, half-formed protests. "Damn, Deeg, c'mere," he said, tugging her shoulders a bit so the woman draped over him, her hair spilling over his shoulders and chest. When she lifted her lips from his neck, Wyatt took the chance to meet her mouth with a groan of pure want. He flicked his tongue over the sweet swell of DG's lips and she opened to him willingly. Thrusting his tongue into her welcoming moist heat, Wyatt explored, tasted, and enjoyed the essence of DG; his heart surged and body throbbed as she met him stroke for stroke with her own eager tongue.

Slipping his hands from her shoulders, Wyatt caressed over heated flesh, his fingers catching lightly on a scar or two he'd have to ask her about later. Finding his way to her breasts, the blond man let out a sound of disappointment upon finding the chest band. Breaking their deep kiss, trailing his lips over her neck and nipping lightly at her shoulder, Wyatt breathed, "take it off, Deeg."

Head thrown back, reveling in the sensations he drew from her, DG lifted her hands from his body, she shrugged the robe from her shoulders, letting it pool on the edge of the bed and slip to the floor. Quickly, she unfastened her chest support and let it fall away, revealing her breasts to the man below her.

With a murmur of approval, Wyatt moved his mouth down to DG's breast. He encircled her waist in strong hands and pulled her over his hips, forcing her to straddle him. Laving his tongue over her dusky nipple, the blond man elicited a deepening moan from the pretty brunet above him. She thrust her breast further into his loving mouth, arching her back and grinding down with her pelvis against his aching erection.

Growling at the stimulus, Wyatt ran a calloused hand over DG's free breast and began kneading, tugging lightly and rolling her nipple between strong fingers. As she moaned, he suckled her other breast, pushing his hips up to meet her needy thrusts. Sliding his free hand down her smooth side, he caught his fingers in her waistband, dragging the flimsy material down, over her curves. He caressed his calloused hands over hips and ass, suckling harder, lapping and lightly nipping at her breast.

Letting out a keen of pure wanton need, DG scrambled to slide out of her underpants, straddling Wyatt's pelvis once more. Taking control of their long-desired encounter, DG gripped Wyatt's shaft and positioned him against her passage. She took a breath, then guided him inside, thrusting down onto his erection with another keen of delight.

Feeling her wrap around him, embedded in her moist heat, Wyatt growled, falling into a moan of sheer pleasure. It had been so long, and he'd wanted her almost forever. Moving back to capture DG's mouth with his, Wyatt began thrusting his hips up, dragging almost out of her then snapping back up to fill her once more, grunting as she quickly fell into a matching rhythm.

Too long denied such primal pleasure, the couple lost themselves to instinct, building quickly towards orgasm. Hands and mouths explored one another as they continued to meet, thrust after thrust. Soon losing the rhythm, Wyatt jerked his hips, once, twice, a third time and his body seemed to explode, filling his lover with hot seed as he covered her mouth with his. He swallowed their combined scream of release as DG fell over the edge with him.

Heart's racing, breath staggering, the couple slowly came back down from the orgasmic high; DG stretched the length of Wyatt's body, the pair trembling in the aftermath.

Stroking loose, sweat-drenched hair from his lover's face, Wyatt kissed her softly on the neck. He held her close, enjoying the sensation of the woman in his arms, pressed to his body. Spreading tired kissed across her shoulders and chest, Wyatt murmured, "sleep, Deeg. I've got you."

Without answering, the princess fell into sleep, secure in her Tin Man's loving arms.

xxx

A cough shook Zero's aching body and he rolled, a groan rasping from his throat. Curling his neck, his face under one arm, the recently deathly ill bodyguard continued to cough. A gentle hand stroked his shoulder carefully, drawing Zero's full attention, and he lifted his arm from his flushed face, unsure how he'd come to be lying on a pallet in a small wooden cabin.

"Here," Princess Azkadellia sank onto the pallet beside him and offered a cup of cold water.

Zero took a long drink, feeling his spasms ease, then nodded his gratitude. She gave him no chance to speak as she helped him to sit up. She held the cup to Zero's lips once more. He took another swallow.

"We need to leave soon, Az," the other man in the room, Dylan, spoke up from the kitchen area.

Narrowing his steel-colored eyes, Zero glanced at the man who'd aided the princess in rescuing him. . . had it been the day before or just that morning? Zero didn't know the other man and didn't trust him. "Where are we going?" he rasped then coughed in an attempt to clear his throat.

Az sighed, seeming to sense the tense hostility between the two men. She lay a hand on Zero's forearm, drawing his eyes to study her other arm: bound and in a makeshift sling.

Zero frowned, eyes narrowing.

"We're going to Finnaqua," Az clarified. "What can you tell me about the attack on the Western Tower, Zero?"

"Attack?" shock jolted Zero fully upright, and he turned confused eyes on his princess. "The tower was attacked . . ." something flickered in his memory. "The Resistance . . . they actually . . ."

Az and Dylan glanced quickly at one another then back on the former Royal Army Commander.

Dylan's soft voice surprised Zero as the man confirmed "yes, we attacked a while ago. But you've been missing for some time."

"Missing . . ." Zero pronounced slowly, playing for time to sort his jumbled memories. "I remember an Iron Suit . . ."

With a nod, Az drew Zero's attention. "You were locked in a suit . . . but were released."

"You were released after only a couple of days," Dylan confirmed.

Touching a calloused hand to his head, Zero frowned, trying to recall the jumbled time. "I . . ." he drew a slow breath. "I remember pain and . . . a blue . . ." Finally, he had a moment of clarity but not a clear memory. "Someone attacked the Tower after the Resistance? Who . . ."

The other two once more exchanged glances.

Anger welled up in an all too familiar manner, but Zero pushed it down. His voice deepened in annoyance. "Who attacked the Tower . . . how long ago?"

"Two mornings ago," Dylan informed him, soft voice just as cold, just as harsh.

Az added "Long Coats attacked, Zero . . . who ordered the attack?" Something in her voice told the commander that she already knew and wanted his confirmation.

"How long have I been sick?" Zero countered, eyes falling on the woman's injury once more.

"Who . . ."

"How long?" Zero demanded, interrupting Dylan.

Sighing softly, Az said "a month, Zero. You had suit fever, but should recover now."

Dylan crossed his arms over his chest and watched as Zero began to process the significance of his illness. Within three minutes however Zero pushed aside the rest of his concerns and lifted steel-colored eyes to meet the princess' deep hazel. He'd been used to accepting change in a heartbeat all of his life. "Randu . . . Captain Randu, my second. He'd be able to keep enough of the troops together to pull off an organized assault. He always wanted to push for a total conquering of all the Realms, but his fear of you . . . of the sorceress held him in check." Yet another exchange of glances confirmed that they had already known his answer.

Zero didn't claim the ability to control the ambitious Randu; he knew the only thing that had kept the older soldier from mutiny was the fact that Zero had been Az's personal bodyguard as a child and had been her preferred go-to guy all those annuals. If Zero hadn't been willing to do anything Az ordered of him, he'd probably have been killed when the coup against Queen Lavender had occurred eight annuals ago. Thankfully, there were times when Zero had seen the princess behind the sorceress or he might have helped take that witch down . . . well, that, and the fact that the witch let him freely indulge in his love of torture and power: two traits he'd had to push aside during the reign of Queen Lavender.

Grunting, Zero pushed off of the pallet, forcing down his weakness and dizziness; enough time had been wasted while he'd allowed himself to be ill. Waving off Az's attempt to help him, the Royal Bodyguard stood. His only concession to his illness was a supporting hand he placed on the wall. He looked around.

"We'll need supplies and horses if we're going to Finnaqua," Zero said.

Dylan dropped his arms to his sides and asked "why do you think you're going? You're still too weak . . ."

"And we aren't?" Az countered, turning her head to meet his slate-grey eyes. "I can't defend myself very well with a broken arm and heavy pain medicine coursing through me, can I, Dylan? I've nearly exhausted myself with healing Zero, and you're barely able to stand after that stunt yesterday with the Papay."

The light-haired man in commoner's clothing frowned, meeting the princess' glare. "And he's just as weak, if not weaker. He nearly died this morning, Az."

Having one part of his confusion sorted felt just as frustrating as having no answers, but Zero sensed that interrupting would not go in his favor, so he let the princess fight this war of wills, as he often had in the past. Annuals of struggle with the witch possessing her had strengthened the young woman.

Fortunately the battle didn't last long between Az and Dylan. The man conceded first. "He's barely able to stand, Az, but I don't mind letting him risk his life on the trip, if you don't."

Az nodded once and looked towards the door. "We'll need another horse, unless two of us share."

As neither man would share with the other, and neither seemed willing to let the other share with the princess, another horse was a necessity. Zero and Dylan worked at refilling the supply packs all three of them had; Zero's a much smaller pack since his had been a regular bag stolen from the Cain house to begin with. Az collected medical supplies and food for the men to store. Shortly, the trio left the cabin and walked over to the pair of horses.

Dylan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked over Zero with distrust in his eyes. "I'll get a horse from a friend on the way. For now, I can walk."

Without arguing, Zero turned and helped Az onto her mare then carefully climbed into Dylan's saddle, allowing the younger man to aid him. When both riders were settled, Dylan grabbed both pair of reins and began walking. Quietly, the younger man said, "Az, I don't know what we're going to do when we get to Finnaqua. They'll kill us if there are three of us."

Grey eyes widening in sudden understanding, Zero hissed "the Clan Cooperation Treaty . . ."  
Jumping on the words, Dylan came to a complete halt and hissed back, "how the hell do you know about that?" His own grey eyes narrowed in what seemed to be anger and hate.

Zero looked Dylan straight in the eye and calmly whispered, "I could hardly be the Princess' bodyguard without knowing one of the few ways to protect her in a mass assault." Contempt dripped from every word, though he used a casual manner. "I'm not sure how you know of it, but I'm quite aware that certain people and passcodes are required to prove Princess Azkedellia is seeking help, not trying to invade."

Suddenly, Zero stiffened and turned his eyes to meet those of the princess. "Actually, we might have trouble getting in even with the proper passcodes, Your Highness. In the last month, how many people have accepted the fact that you were possessed?"

"Pretty much everyone," Dylan answered before Az could speak. "They know she was not able to do anything about the witch. The main problem is that people think the witch will come back . . . if she hasn't already . . ." the resistance fighter added in slow realization. "My stars!" He turned to look up at Az. "Do you think she's found someone else to possess and that Randu is helping her?"

As if bemused, Az finally spoke up. "I think the witch is gone for quite awhile, but a new menace is out there. So far, only the Long Coats have attacked. They have no sign of magical support. Think about it, Dylan, they invaded in the early morning after my parents left the Tower."

Slowly, his still befuddled mind processing as they once again began to move, Zero asked "can you tell me what happened during the new attack? I might be able to tell you just who Randu has working with him." He didn't doubt Randu was behind this new assault; that man had been biding his time looking for a weakness he could exploit.

Az sighed. "Ambrose had just gotten out of surgery, and DG had gone to check on him. I hadn't even gotten dressed yet when I saw the incoming Long Coat troop."

Dylan nodded and turned his head to be better heard as he continued to lead their horses. "Jeb, Wyatt, and I had come the night before to let the family know that there were rumors of unrest. People were talking of wanting to put Princess Leona on the throne instead of the current Gales. The queen and king had left in the night to go talk with Princess Leona and find out the truth or lie to the rumors. They went to . . ."

"The Grasslands of the Nature Clan," Zero interrupted. Upon seeing Dylan's distrustful look, he rolled his eyes and added, "I've been with the royal family since Princess Azkadellia was four. I know many of their secrets, Dylan."

Shock lit the younger man's face, and he seemed unhappy with that information.

Zero rolled his eyes and continued, "don't you think I could have taken over by now if I'd wanted to, you moron? I'm eight years older than the princess . . . and military trained. She was barely twelve when she was possessed and would have been an easy target, even with the witch's power. My mother didn't leave me totally without magical knowledge of my own."

"But you never use it, Zero," Az added steadily. "You swore when we were children that you'd leave the magic to me and stick to fighting with fists." She seemed utterly convinced that even after twenty-odd annuals, her oldest friend and protector would keep a child's vow against magic.

He sighed and looked over at her. "I'm reconsidering it, Princess. But I'd need training. I'm sure I could do what mother could, since magic rarely skips generations."

Az shook her head. "You're mother was the bane of both our existences, Zero. I think we're better off if you stick to the physical."

Not arguing with her opinion, Zero let the subject drop only to latch onto another. "You said Ambrose was in surgery?" He couldn't help the avid interest he held concerning the former Royal Adviser. After all, the world's most intelligent man had been practically destroyed by the witch but had come back as one of the liberators of the O.Z. Zero couldn't imagine what surgery the brainless man would need, unless it was to return his extracted brain: a surgery never successfully attempted in the history of brain removal.

The princess' next words confirmed that radical thought. "He had his brain put back in."

"And he survived? He was mentally stable?" Zero thought of the implications for some of the Unwanted who'd gone through brain extraction over the years.

"He lived," she confirmed, "but before he even awoke, the invasion happened. He in all probability didn't survive that." She sounded sad.

Zero nodded, frowning. "Randu wouldn't have let any of the royal court live, if he knew who they were. Unless someone convinced him Ambrose was somebody else, Randu would have had the man executed on the spot." Noticing Az's hands tightening on her reins, Zero dropped that subject, too. Instead, he tried a third, "when we get to Finnaqua, one of us will need to stay behind while the other two go to the Spiritus people . . . I assume that's why you're going to Finnaqua."

"Yes," Az confirmed. "It is." She fell silent a long moment but suddenly added "We'll decide then who stays at the palace and who goes on, Zero. For now, let's just get there."

Dylan remained quiet, a frown on his face, and continued to lead the pair through the underbrush towards the road south. Only a few more minutes passed before he left them to go retrieve a third horse. Neither Az nor Zero spoke while Dylan was gone, and when he returned leading a black gelding, the tension which had been building seemed to ease. The resistance fighter slid his foot in the stirrup and swung gracefully to mount, despite the exhaustion evidenced by his pallor and a thin sheen of sweat on his skin.

Before Dylan could turn his mount to lead the trio to the road nearby, Zero called softly, "who killed Adora Cain?"

Back stiffening at the question, Dylan turned his face to pin Zero with what could only be called a hateful glare. "You did," he ground out.

"No," Zero didn't shake his head, knowing in his current state it would cause dizziness. "I never ordered her death. I ordered everyone to leave her to me. Even Randu seemed to respect that order."

The younger man continued to frown and softly said "the order came from you and a woman carried it out. Adora's body was found battered, raped, and practically decapitated."

"A woman raped her?" Az questioned, horror in her voice.

"That's why we knew it couldn't have been a woman, only," Dylan said, gaze still steady on Zero's face.

Fighting nausea at the revelation of how one of his only friends, albeit from his teenaged years, had died, Zero's voice dropped in controlled fury. "I wanted to torture Wyatt Cain. Leaving his wife and kid alive but inaccessible was the best way to do that. Why would I end it so quickly for him? If the pair were dead, there'd be no reason for Cain to leave me alive . . . think about it. As long as I knew where his family was, Cain would leave me alive so he could get the information."

Dylan's skin grew paler in apparent sickness at Zero's cold reasoning.

Unbothered, Zero merely waited for Dylan's verbal reply. He was used to others not approving of his torture or what they considered his convoluted thinking. There was absolutely no way he'd tell the resistance fighter that he'd left Adora alive because she was the first woman he'd ever loved. That memory was buried . . . would always lay buried with the woman who'd captured his heart and sworn to marry him then turned to another man . . . bearing another man's child. Shaking his head, and loosening the hold of those memories, though not the anger they brought, Zero glared at Dylan, fighting the wave of dizzy nausea that threatened to knock him from the horse. His hands tightened on his reins, his knees gripping the horse's flanks all the tighter. "Describe this woman who carried out Adora's death."

The other man merely growled out "brown hair, tall, frowned.” He shook his head. “No one saw her actually do the killing, but she wore the black leathers of the Long Coats and carried herself with all the evil, self-assured brutality that brought with it.”

Frowning fiercely, Zero barked out “no female ever joined my Long Coats.” He turned an ice cold glare on the other man. “She was an impostor.”

“So,” Az interrupted softly, eyes narrowing, “why did she want to brutalize and kill Adora Cain?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
> 
> Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . _(Ice- Mount Runcible)_  
>  Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . _(Milltown)_  
>  Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . _(Viewers)_  
>  Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . _(Guilds- Munchkins)_  
>  Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . _(formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)_  
>  Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . _(Alma Mata- Gillikin)_  
>  Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . _(Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)_  
>  Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt  
> Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . _(Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)_  
>  Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . _(Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)_  
>  Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . _(Air- Lake Country)_  
>  Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . _(Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)_

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: "Tin Man" is a trademark of Imagiquest Entertainment and L. Frank Baum. I am in no way connected these people, and I do not claim ownership to these characters, lands, or names. I have borrowed them to share a story... and most likely not a story L. Frank Baum would have written, had he had the time or no. I am making no money from this, and it is just for my entertainment, and that of free entertainment to a select group of friends. Thank You.


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